


All the Pale Nightmares

by findmyantidrug



Series: Vietnam AU [1]
Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Vietnam AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-01
Updated: 2010-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-11 09:46:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/111036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/findmyantidrug/pseuds/findmyantidrug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rorschach is drafted to fight in the Vietnam War, where the Comedian takes him under his wing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_I was part of the night. I was the land itself - everything, everywhere - the fireflies and paddies, the moon, the midnight rustlings, the cool phosphorescent shimmer of evil - I was atrocity - I was jungle fire, jungle drums - I was the blind stare in the eyes of all those poor, dead, dumbfuck ex-pals of mine - all the pale young corpses... - I was the beast on their lips - I was Nam - the horror, the war._  
\- The Things They Carried, Tim O'Brien

Prologue

When Rorschach first tells Nite Owl that he is going to war, he laughs. "The war on crime or the one in Vietnam?" he asks, because war is an abstract to him.

Rorschach squares his shoulders, lifts his chin, and summons all the pride and dignity that can be afforded to a man. "Vietnam, Nite Owl. Draft lottery came up number one." The inexplicable pride with which he says it stuns Nite Owl.

"What - you're being serious?"

Rorschach nods.

The battles start.

-

For the next few months, Nite Owl - Daniel Dreiberg, as Rorschach learns quite quickly - argues against the war. He goes to great lengths to explain the various ways Rorschach can avoid the draft, and how it's worth the effort - after all, New York _needs_ him. There's no shame, he says, in staying home from a war that has no definite morality fueling it. Things aren't black and white in Vietnam, he says like it's a secret, and Rorschach is better suited to the blatant evils of America's criminals.

When Rorschach refuses to concede to weakness, Daniel changes tactics. At least, he insists, let him have a _name,_ so he's not left wondering, never knowing, watching soldiers' names crop up in newspapers and always questioning. He implores him for any bit of name - first or last, _anything._ When before he tucked his mail away, he leaves it strewn on the table as a reminder - _you have my address,_ the envelopes scream. _Please write._

Rorschach does not surrender his identity. He will hold it to the ends of the earth.

-

The night before he hangs his face to join the army, he visits Daniel. Not to patrol, as he needs his rest for the days to come. It's to say goodbye, a sentimentality he would rather spare but which Nite Owl has earned. Daniel, dressed in sweatpants and an old T-shirt and chewing his way through a peanut butter sandwich, is surprised to see him.

"I wasn't expecting you," he says, concern explicit in his expression, hope present even still. "What's going on?"

"I leave for Fort Drum tomorrow." Rorschach doesn't like the subdued terror resting heavy between them. "Thought you would appreciate a proper goodbye."

Daniel doesn't answer immediately, wiping his fingers off one by one on a napkin. He can't seem to meet Rorschach's face. "Oh," he manages. You…you aren't going to give me a name, are you."

"No." But I am giving you a goodbye, he doesn't say. That should be enough.

The florescent lights seem too harsh on Daniel's drawn face as he rises. He doesn't look at Rorschach as he leaves the room; his footsteps echo quietly throughout the house. Rorschach waits, ready to give Daniel time to compose himself.

It's only three minutes before Daniel returns, and if Rorschach notices the way Daniel sniffs as he enters the kitchen, he doesn't mention it. Some things are best left alone. "If you're really leaving, then…" He squares his shoulders and looks Rorschach straight in the face. "I want to give you something. Before you go."

"Daniel," he begins, but before he can admonish him for the needless softness, Daniel crosses the kitchen and pushes something into his hand.

"Here. It's something my mother gave me, before…well." Rorschach doesn't know anything about Daniel's family, but he recognizes the unspoken death sitting between them. He understands why Daniel doesn't want to say it outright, to give the words power over Rorschach's fate, and although he thinks it's awfully superstitious, he understands. "I want you to have it. For good luck."

"Don't believe in luck." Rorschach doesn't open his hand or try to give it back. "My memory is fine," he adds when Daniel opens his mouth. "You will see me again."

Maybe he will, and maybe he won't. Rorschach sees now that it was a mistake to make a show of leaving. His selfishness makes him feel nauseous and ashamed, and he realizes now that a small part of him wanted to see if Daniel would still want to face him with the war standing in front of them.

"Listen, I…" Daniel smoothes back his hair and doesn't look at Rorschach. There are a hundred pointless things that could be said, none of which even touch the surface; the fact that Daniel is brushing over them in favor of something pertinent makes an unfamiliar twinge run through Rorschach's chest. Finally, Daniel sighs and looks at him, hard. "Give them Hell."

So he will.


	2. Chapter 2

Against his better judgment, Walter Kovacs brings his face. There may, he reasons, be an opportunity to utilize it, to instill fear and awe in the Vietcong. Three months in the brush and he has found no better use for it than as a small comfort, something that he touches in the dark when the night closes in, to remind himself who he is and why he is fighting. It's not much consolation when the only screams are animals in the night (and men under fire, and villagers collapsing in flame) and the only smells are that of heavy jungle.

Daniel's relic is safer and more comforting by far, though he does his best not to dwell on why a soft familiarity would do that. It's a small owl, bent from wire with yellow stones set for eyes. It's easier to hide than his mask and is always cool to the touch, even after hours of sitting against his chest on long marches. His initial self-consciousness at having a solid memory from the states is quickly shot down. Everyone does. Even, from what Kovacs has been able to ascertain, the VC do, and this is their country.

The other men in the squadron smile and curse and linger together, but none of them have a particular affinity with him. They appreciate his skills and quiet tact, and they revere his silent acceptance of duties like crawling through the tunnels, but that's as far as it goes. Under fire, they seek each other's backs; the men trust Kovacs. After all, they know that when it comes down to it, he will pull the trigger first.

Despite the heat, despite the humidity, despite the mosquitoes and marshes and rain and mottled jungle, Kovacs feels at home. The subdued camaraderie of the squadron and the undercurrent of adrenaline that is always at the tip of everyone's fingers is familiar as the streets of New York, and he slips into fatigues like he was born to. He bears the weight of a soldier with dignity and without complaint.

Kovacs serves his country like he served his city - without compromise and with his eyes turned straight ahead.

-

He's older than most of the boys. The only man he's _not_ older than is his First Lieutenant, and at first the other men ask him questions about his life before war.

"Have ya got a sweet thing back home?" Ryan Cook asks, laying on his stomach outside his foxhole. "I haven't seen you get a letter once." 

"No," he says, holding the wire owl up, studying it against the canopy. "No family back at the States."

"Shit, man, no wonder you go into firefights like a maniac." He reaches out and knocks on Kovacs's helmet. "I want to keep my head for my girl, y'know?"

"I do what my country asks of me," Walter says. He fixes his helmet and rolls onto his side.

-

Once, he comes out of a tunnel with blood splattered across his face. The men watch him wipe it off and say nothing, but from that moment on, his dispassionate stare is ingrained in their memories.

-

"The Comedian is getting shipped over," the men whisper, and Walter thinks that there are some things that are worth waiting for. It warms him to think that there are still masks left willing to fight for their country. He doubts that he will see the Comedian, and even if he does, he will refuse to let the Comedian know who he truly is, but the thought of his presence in this awful country instills a quiet strength.

He is not alone.

-

For the first and last time, Kovacs writes Daniel a letter. He gives no return address; he knows Daniel's address by heart. He keeps it short. He doesn't say anything about the whites of the VC's eyes just before he put a bullet between them, or about the glow of napalm shredding a village to pieces, or about the almost artistic way the spray of blood looked when Russ Black was shot through the throat. He tells him that he is not dead, and that there may or may not be a species of owl here, if the sounds at night are any indication. He tells him of the rumor about the Comedian. Assures him he's giving them Hell. He doesn't sign it for security reasons, but he's sure Daniel will not wonder who it's from. Staring at the envelope, he imagines Nite Owl bringing Archimedes into a controlled dive, teeth bared. He imagines Daniel eating a sandwich in pajamas.

He burns the letter.

-

Rorschach is so surprised to hear his name, one night, that he sits upright without thinking. "What?" he says, sharp in the growing darkness. Several men turn to look at him. No one says anything. "What are you talking about?"

"Costumed adventurers, man," one of the boys says, smile laced with the relaxation of drugs. "Y'know the Comedian is in 'Nam, now?"

Kovacs hesitates to reply. "Thought I heard you mention Rorschach."

"Aren't you listening?" Carl Morris laughs. "I'm telling you guys, the fucker saved my brother's _life._"

"Uh-huh," someone says.

"Go on," Ryan encourages.

Kovacs touches his mask, safely tucked into a pocket, and controls the corners of his mouth.

"I shit you not, he comes flyin' off a damn four-story building and starts whaling on these goons like a nightmare. _Four_ guys, man, down, boom, and when it's all done he just straightens his damn hat and asks Ben if he's all right. Then he just disappears into the shadows. These guys ain't just publicity stunts, I'm _telling_ you."

"When was that?" Kovacs asks, despite the warnings in his gut. Too personal, too prideful, too _close;_ they'll make the connection.

Carl looks surprised by the question. "You really wasn't listening?" Kovacs scowls. "A couple years back. He was just cruisin' along eighth when the guys jump him."

Rorschach remembers, the night swirling into focus behind his eyes. He dropped from a fire escape a story high and it was only two men, but he's sure the memory is the same.

(He learns in Vietnam that his cause is the only one worth fighting for.)

-

The Comedian is choppered in with their supplies. There's no warning for him - no one is told he's coming until the Comedian says it himself, grinning around his cigar. "Heard you boys are headin' in for some heavy action," he says. "Count me in."

His presence puts everyone on edge. His unintentional warning keeps running through their minds, set on repeat - _heavy action, heavy action._ Kovacs keeps an eye from a distance; he watches the Comedian rope the loudest boys into him, laughing and smoking with them as everyone repacks for the rest of the march.

Although Kovacs tries to maintain subtlety with his stare, the Comedian notices. Their eyes only meet twice across the clearing, but it's enough - his suspicion is aroused, Kovacs can tell. He keeps his gaze down after that, and refuses the urge to touch his mask. As the day wears on, the Comedian hangs like a bad omen over the men. It doesn't take long for the tension to settle in.

-

That first day and evening, the Comedian spends his time moving through the ranks, eliciting stories from the men. They all know what he's doing - he's scoping them out, trying to decide who's the best to stick with. The Lieutenant's mouth stays a thin line. He has no power over the Comedian; he can't keep the casual banter and breaks of formation in check.

It's inevitable that stories about Kovacs would spring up.

The Comedian learns about Kovacs facing his demons in the claustrophobic dark. He hears about the way his heart pounded in his ears, the way he heard a noise, at first indistinguishable except for the way it echoed. How Kovacs had to fight the urge to back down, to touch his pockets (a nervous tic by now, if the man can be said to have any), but how he forced himself on, holding his flashlight steady. About the temporary glow of the whites of those eyes, about the warmth from the gun and the warmth transacted to his face like his freckles had been set alight. How Kovacs didn't realize he'd shot him, at first.

(What he does not learn is how in the moment after, Kovacs saw Rorschach looking back.)

The Comedian has heard more bizarre and more terrible stories before, but he files it away and keeps an eye on Kovacs's blotchy face. Kovacs can hear the story unfolding among the men and wonders what the Comedian is thinking about him. He keeps his gaze forward and hands firm and pretends that his chest does not tighten in his chest when the Comedian throws a look back.

-

That evening, the Comedian crouches down into Kovacs's foxhole without prompting or permission. Contrary to his earlier prediction, they've not hit any kind of action; the men are all in deep stupors of boredom made worse by the heat. Kovacs doesn't react immediately, slowly smoothing out the sides of his foxhole, an act to keep him busy until dusk settles.

"Hey," he says. "Kovacs, right?"

"Walter Kovacs, yes." The mask is heavy in his pocket, and though Kovacs isn't looking at the Comedian, he's sure that he can see through the fatigues, can see the familiar black and white swirl and is weighing how to bring it up without giving it away to the rest of the squadron.

"I've heard some crazy shit about you."

"Likewise."

The Comedian laughs at that, the sound rising to the canopy. "I bet you have," he says. "Guess that means you don't need an introduction." Kovacs keeps his focus on the wall of the foxhole, knowing he will have to face the Comedian to smooth the opposite side of the wall. The Comedian doesn't speak for a while, watching him work, then, at length, he bends over and relights his cigar. "Just thought I'd drop by and let you know to stay out of my way. When shit goes down, I don't stop to think _is he on my side or is he a gook?_ I just aim and fire." He taps the muzzle of his gun against Kovacs's thigh. "You hear me?"

"I appreciate the concern, but it is unnecessary. I understand. Fight back to back or not at all. Common tactic." He can feel heat creeping up his neck. 

The Comedian snorts a quiet noise of contemplation and rises. "That's right. Keep your head low, kid."

-

They're a few miles south of a village when the firing begins. Everyone's preoccupied by the complicated task of staying alive, staying low but not _too_ low, not so low that they cannot level their guns properly. Not so low that they disappear into the hard red earth. They all keep an eye on the Comedian, even through the blunt terror. 

It's like a nightmare come to life - typical.

The Comedian fights like the walking dead - the earth explodes around him and he only crouches as a formality, sending quick spurts of bullets into the trees and smoking the whole time, just taking pull after casual pull off his cigar.

Kovacs touches his mask through the heavy cloth of his fatigues and, for a moment in the chaos, feels a deep-rooted calm that blankets him. For the first time in his life, Kovacs wears Rorschach's face without the mask, and the world spins with obscene clarity. He moves in a haze (he is transported to the city alleys, hounding down Underboss and his legion, where there are bullets but the terror runs behind them, not in front).

It doesn't last long. They never do; there's never drawn-out battles of epic proportions where men's endurance and will are tested. Rorschach is left tasting the fauna and dirt and seeing the world crystal clear, hands steady on his gun as he closes in on the Comedian. 

"Finally," the Comedian says, as if talking to himself even as he looks at Kovacs. "That's the kind of shit I've been _aching_ for."

Rorschach can feel himself ebbing away with the haze of adrenaline. The muzzle of his gun starts to tremble.

"You boys gonna call in the napalm or what?" the Comedian barks back. The Lieutenant and RTO look at him through the undergrowth, startled. "We ain't gonna let those bitches get by without a good toasting, are we?" He looks at Kovacs and pulls out his cigar with a wink. "Knuckleheads."

You brought out the best of me, Kovacs doesn't say. The words would be breathless and foolhardy and the muzzle of his gun is shaking more noticeably in wake of his subdued awe, so he just swallows and nods gravely.

-

The Comedian, they soon discover, has a special radio of his own. He claims it's manufactured by Dr. Manhattan and is allegedly one-of-a-kind. The night after they bomb the village, he sits apart from the group and pulls it out of a pocket, relaying hushed information into it. The men pass judgments in whispers and Kovacs wonders how deeply ingrained into the government the Comedian really is. Much deeper than he could've predicted.

When the Comedian steps back into the ring of men, he tells the Lieutenant that he's going out for the night and that if he's not back by sunrise, to radio in a full bombing of the area. Kovacs doesn't look up from his C rations as he listens. "Are you going alone?" the Lieutenant asks, preemptive bitterness edged in his voice.

The Comedian doesn't answer immediately. Probably, he hasn't considered bringing anyone else with him. When Kovacs glances up, the Comedian is staring straight at him; seeing the challenge there, Kovacs doesn't look away. It doesn't take long before the Comedian returns his attention to the Lieutenant. "Yeah. No use dragging extra bodies with me." Kovacs glares at his cold stew and resists the urge to step into the conversation. "Catch you bozos in the morning."

-

Walter braces his hands against the warm earth of his foxhole and listens to the night unfold around him.

-

He's half-asleep when a shadow leans over him and presses something wet and soft to his mouth. "You're all right, kid," a voice whispers over him, and Walter jerks to attention, clenching his teeth hard to keep the object from spilling further into his mouth. "You got potential." White diamonds of the Comedian's mask glow in the dark; his fingers insistently press the object to Walter's teeth. "Go on." He's grinning. Walter's pulse pounds in his head; his M-16 is within reach; the Comedian braces one hand against his arm, disconcerting in its gentleness.

"You want to play with the big dogs?" He's not laughing but he might as well be, shadows curving up from his mouth. "You ain't seen shit, Kovacs. If you think you can _handle_ it, then open up."

Walter's breath is sharp through his nose and he can smell something unfamiliar and bitter; viscous liquid trails past his teeth. He can take anything the world can throw at him, he can handle anything the Comedian can, and every nerve in his body is flaring up in protest but he's immobile. They watch each other in the dark, and the Comedian almost pulls his hand back, almost draws back into the shadows. Kovacs doesn't let him. He opens his mouth and the thing rolls in and he knows without thinking what it is.

It's tough and maybe it's tasteless or maybe his body won't let him register the taste, but when he bites down it bursts, and the Comedian leans back and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "You ain't seen shit," he promises. Kovacs's stomach lurches. 

(There's an acute awareness of his face, of the sensitivity of fine grains of dirt, and it's a little like seeing Russ Black's throat explode out; the only thing keeping him from touching his face is dull willpower and the Comedian's silhouette.)

Walter's stomach rolls in protest before he even swallows, but he's eaten rats before and he can stomach this, he _will._ The Comedian is on the edge of his foxhole and the morning is running dull gray through the canopy. Kovacs rubs at his mouth.

"Welcome to war, kid," he says.

Twenty minutes later his thoughts are running too far, too fast. Silently, he leaves his foxhole, bends over behind a bush, and vomits. He thinks he can still feel it inside, a parasite studying his crimes before they can touch the surface.

Kovacs has always had problems with insomnia, but it just gets worse. At night he glares at what slivers of light pierce the thick leaves above him. During the day, it starts to show; sometimes it takes more than one try to connect pieces of his gun back together; sometimes the ground swirls slowly under his feet, tempting him to fumble; sometimes his reaction time is so severely affected that once, a soldier had to pull him down to the ground when they went under fire. One evening, when Carl Morris uses a Claymore antipersonnel mine to heat up his C rations, Kovacs curses violently enough that the men near him immediately give him a wide berth, which is upheld the rest of the night.

He knows the Comedian is watching him. Studying his reaction. Judging him, for better or worse, and Kovacs is sickened by the thought that he is being deemed a coward, now, because every time he shuts his eyes he becomes too acutely aware of his body. Everything from the past four (and further, even, dim symmetry in black hallways) swims to the surface of his mind, all rotating around bright shots of white in pure dark, all clenching through his muscles without the ability to release the tension. For the first time since he's arrived in Vietnam, he wants Daniel to sit him down and _force_ him to talk (_because damn it, Rorschach, **something's** bothering you and I **care**_).

-

"Look, kid," he says, "I know what's going through your head." Kovacs can't help himself. He touches his mask. "If it'll make you get your shit together, I'll make you a promise - there's no more nightly visits comin' from me. Scout's honor."

Kovacs has no alternative but to trust him. (It takes Carl Morris kicking him in the shoulder to wake him the next morning.)

-

If the Comedian was testing him, then Kovacs apparently passed. He marches alongside him when he's tired of pulling conversation from the other men. The other boys in the squadron are drawn in by the Comedian; Kovacs finds the second-hand attention difficult to become accustomed to, particularly during breaks. 

The Comedian doesn't talk about much, focusing on the terrain instead. Sometimes he indulges Walter with clipped war stories; sometimes he indulges the others with his tales as a crime fighter. Walter, the Comedian declares, is a good listener, and therefore a good soldier. "You know better than to waste time jabbering," he says, chewing on his cigar. "Open mouth, dead soldier. Ya gotta _listen._ Don't give everything you've got at once."

He has a picture of Sally Jupiter, which he shows to Kovacs one night by flashlight. "She was my girl, once," he offers, and if he notices the way Kovacs glares at the picture, he gives no indication that he cares. He flicks off the flashlight after a moment, then turns to squint at Kovacs in the dark. "You got anything from home?"

Walter hesitates. His mask is heavy in his pocket; the owl rests against his chest, feather-light. Gently, he extracts it; when the Comedian moves to turn on the light again, he shakes his head and touches the owl to the back of his hand. The Comedian flips his hand over and takes the trinket, feeling it over.

"He was a good friend," Walter says, and it is only the moment after, when the Comedian looks at him, scrutinizing, that he realizes how that sounds. He swallows thickly and can't decide if it would do more harm than good to clarify that it wasn't the same as the Comedian and Sally, that he's _not_ homosexual and he didn't even _want_ the gift in the first place; that now it's just a force of habit to run his thumb over the tiny frame at night and that when he thinks of Daniel, he thinks of violence more frequently than kindness.

"Make friends with owls, huh?" It's a joke, and the laugh is hot and smoky in the air.

Walter grunts and snatches it back.

-

Two weeks and more brushes with death than the platoon cares to count later, a helicopter is flying them back to a base camp. The Comedian lounges back with a frown that contradicts his body language. He's not smoking; he's been out of cigars for the past four days and managed to smoke all of Kovacs's spare cigarettes before the chopper finally picked them up. Even though they're returning to a base, there's a palatable tension in the air. Two days ago, a kid tripped a mine on the way for a piss; the entire time they were waiting for dustoff he was crying, even after the medic administered morphine. The Comedian hadn't said a word, but his grim smile was enough to set the Lieutenant on edge.

"Worst time to strike out," the Comedian had chuckled to Kovacs and Carl Morris that night. "Fly down, then boom! Don't gotta piss no more, that's for sure." They didn't know yet if the soldier had survived. Kovacs thinks he will; the shrapnel had primarily lanced through his legs, and it seemed like the femoral artery hadn't been struck. He'll probably be crippled for life, but not dead. Small consolation. Not that it mattered either way to him. He's sure the boy hadn't even really felt it; shock is a powerful thing.

The Lieutenant's hoping the Comedian will tag along with another unit once they make it back to base. Kovacs is expecting it. The Comedian's most pressing plans, it seems, are to get his hands on more cigars and on food that isn't canned.

-

"See, guys like _you,_they take things so seriously that they never actually see life for what it is." Walter is cleaning his M-16 outside of his tent, listening to the Comedian solemnly. "And what it _is,_ is one big joke. A big game. You like checkers?"

Walter considers the question. "Prefer chess."

The Comedian laughs at that, though Walter's not sure what's funny about it. "See? Exactly my point. _Prefer chess_ \- Christ. Anyway, people got this notion that life's set up like this big checker - ah, hell, all right, _chess_ \- game." He spits into the dirt and hunkers down, drawing a long knife and sharpening tool from his boot and pocket, respectively. "Thing is, that ain't right at all. Life's like a damn Bouncing Betty. You know it's gonna come up, and you know shit's gonna hit the fan, but everything else is fair game. It's _chaos,_ understand?"

Walter contemplates the perspective as he carefully brushes the extra oil off of the pieces of his rifle. There is nothing particularly inflammatory about the ideology, aside from the denouncement of God, who Walter has had troubles believing exists in the past. In the present, too, when he thinks about suffocating dark and gleaming spots of white. "I disagree," he says eventually. "There are too many parallels and coincidences through life to be meaningless chaos." As he speaks, Ryan Cook, sidling past, stops and comes over, slowly smoking. He listens with interest. "Perhaps not defined by God or any outside force, but there _is_ order."

"That is pretty comforting," Ryan gives him as the Comedian chuckles. "I mean, hell, that at least gives some meaning to me being here."

"You two morons feel free to delude yourself. I mean, if there's a God, then what is he - a comedian?" The look he gives Walter is entirely too predatory; he stops sharpening the knife with violent strokes, choosing instead to lazily draw it across the sharpening tool.

Walter can feel his face reddening and he focuses solely on the task of reassembling his gun as he replies. "No. God is the peanut gallery." He's uncomfortably reminded of the shameless way he's followed the Comedian ever since he flew in and makes a note to stop. Not a wise decision in the first place.

"Ain't that the truth," Ryan agrees, grinning. He drops his cigarette and grinds it out. "Anyway, I'm heading for the mess hall. You guys comin'?"

Before the Comedian can say yes or no, Walter nods and stands, ducking into his tent to lay his rifle on his cot (and, maybe, just a little, to compose himself).

-

The men in Kovacs's unit learned a long time ago not to touch him, after an incident where a man earned three broken fingers for deciding to pat Kovacs on the back after a brief firefight. Afterwards, Ryan was the only one who ever touched Kovacs, and only during deep, peaceful lulls. It reminds him of Daniel, the casual way he taps his shoulder if he wants his attention or the way he will lean his back against Kovacs's, sometimes, when they're digging into food or wasting time during a break. He's always conscious about what he's doing with him, like he is expecting Kovacs to lash out but trusting him to remain docile.

At first, it had set Kovacs on edge. He suspected Ryan of subterfuge, of homosexuality, of attempting to leech whatever he could from Kovacs. When none of those unfolded, Walter begrudgingly appreciated the human contact.

When the Comedian touches him, however, it sets his nerves on fire. He can never tell if he should watch his hands or his face, which would be more dangerous, which would unravel him first. The Comedian wields none of Ryan's tact, throwing his arm around Kovacs's shoulders or elbowing him good-naturedly whenever the urge strikes him.

Without the strength afforded to him by Rorschach's mask, Walter finds himself hard-pressed to ignore the tense prickles that jolt under his skin at the touch. He learns to be more wary of the Comedian's hand rubbing the back of his neck than of tripwires, which are rare in the brush (and nonexistent at camp).

Kovacs keeps a focused ear on the news, hoping for his platoon to step back out to danger, if only for a solid distraction.

-

It takes a week before new orders are sent out. Nobody explicitly asks about it, but everyone has it on their minds - will the Comedian come with them? And if he does, how long can they expect him to stay with them? Will the Lieutenant go insane? Kovacs doesn't know if he wants him to accompany them or not. On one hand, he is a trustworthy American hero who keeps the VC and platoon on their toes. On the other, he seems hellbent on personally driving Kovacs mad, intentions be damned.

The Comedian is noncommittal on the subject. When the choppers come in to take them out, he stands back and watches for a long minute, unlit cigar trapped between his teeth. Kovacs stops outside of his chopper and looks back; he can't see the Comedian's expression from here, but his body is clearly relaxed.

He pulls his radio from a pocket and speaks into it a while. Then, wordlessly and without fuss, he boards a chopper; that's the end of that.

-

Children like Kovacs. That's not to say they're not fascinated by the other soldiers, milling about them shyly, but when given the chance they're drawn to him. Their dirty, upturned faces study him as he performs mundane tasks and they ask him questions in stilted English that he answers curtly in stilted Vietnamese.

Some of the other soldiers remain uneasy when they set camp up by villages. They've all heard the stories about women and children strapped down with bombs. Generally, they're more at ease with the old poppa-sans, who are inexplicably always friendly or, barring that, grumpy in a familiar way, like the old men in overalls back at the States. It's more common for them to pass through safe villages than violent ones. People don't tend to provoke men who hold grenades in their sleep like children hold dolls.

The Comedian only has an eye for the women, who can never seem to decide if they enjoy his presence or not. At any rate, they always try to keep their children away from him, eyeing his cigars and pistols where they ignore the soldiers' cigarettes and M-16s. Kovacs wants to teach the Comedian about why it's wrong to chase after Vietnamese women, but the lesson is too large to fit into words and it's not his place, anyway.

-

The men have a game that they frequently play with Kovacs, and it doesn't take long for the Comedian to join in. Ryan Cook started it when, a month into Kovacs's tour, he made the note that Kovacs never cracks so much as a smile. Since then, they all have made it a goal of theirs to make Kovacs laugh. There's a pool going, which, whenever Kovacs thinks about it, makes him irritable and uncomfortable. The men stopped telling him how high the pool had gotten when it hit 60 dollars.

So far, no one has succeeded. The men have at least learned subtlety by now - they don't approach him to explicitly tell jokes. Instead they incorporate elaborate jokes into loud conversation, throwing their glances towards him and speaking more proudly when they manage to draw a thin smile out of him. He's impressed, at least, by their tenacity. Not many of the men have given up.

The Comedian loves it. "Why did the chicken cross the road?" he asks so frequently that, sometimes, Kovacs is tempted to punch him square in the mouth. The only thing keeping him from doing so (other than his admiration for an American hero, of course) is the Comedian's self-awareness. Surprisingly, he's terrible at telling normal jokes, instead garnering laughs with dark commentary and lewd remarks.

So far, no one has succeeded. Sometimes, Kovacs thinks no one will, that Vietnam will do it for them, that one night he will spot a red moon on the horizon and the tension will break; sometimes, he thinks it will just be a matter of one moment that will trigger him to howl to the sky like an animal.

-

It's a heavy afternoon when the Comedian receives special orders on his radio. That doesn't happen too often, and only once before has his mission called for assistance. When he informs the Lieutenant about the amount of time it should take, he tacks on "Oh, and I'm gonna need to borrow one of your boys" like it's no big deal. The men nearby look towards the Comedian, startled and intrigued; Kovacs makes a point of stabbing a piece of meat with his fork and not looking up.

"Just one?" the Lieutenant asks, dubious. "When you last borrowed my men you took four. What kind of mission -"

"A _classified_ mission," the Comedian cuts, jabbing him in the chest with a finger. Scattered raindrops start to fall, hissing near the grass. In the distance, thunder rolls; a few of the men tense unconsciously, but everyone's attention remains trained on the Comedian and the Lieutenant. They've been waiting for the eventual brawl to erupt between them.

A muscle works in the Lieutenant's jaw, but when he speaks, it's low and controlled. "All right. Who are you taking?"

"I donno," he says. "Hey! Kovacs!" Slowly, Kovacs lowers his C-rations and looks up, face carefully blank. "Wanna see some specialized action?"

There's really only one answer to that.

-

As they move through the brush, the rain begins to pick up, falling in huge drops off the leaves. The Comedian details the mission to Kovacs in a hushed voice. There's a high-ranking VC commander allegedly moving through territory nearby, and it is the Comedian's job to find and eradicate him. Kovacs's job is to support him in whatever way possible - the most likely scenario is that the Comedian will need the extra firepower and the human decoy.

"There'll be ten guys, max, but as long as we pull _their_ stunts on 'em, this'll be no problem. That's why I asked _you_ and not someone else. Always got your shit wired tight, y'know? You don't _panic._" He extracts a chocolate bar from his pocket and uses his teeth to pull back the foil. "See," he says, taking an indiscriminate bite and looking over his shoulder, "you've got _experience._ Where it counts, anyway."

Kovacs recognizes the swell of pride in his chest, and allows himself to study the Comedian, trying to decide of he's being sincere. The Comedian is a war hero, a true American hero, and for all his cursing and smoking and lewd behavior, he is a good man. Kovacs isn't used to compliments of this caliber from good men. He's used to silence, and to fear.

The Comedian seems sincere. It's five more miles to their mission's position, and the rain is picking up. Kovacs doesn't take out his poncho. They're in this moment together, as comrades; as brothers. (The rain shudders off the trees and the day is young.)

-

It takes a while to decide on the best position for attack, only partly because they must do it in absolute silence, in case there are snipers around. Finally, they settle on a small alcove set into a cliff overlooking the area the target is supposed to travel through. It's close enough to the ground that they can jump down without injury, but high enough that they have a wide view. Kovacs thinks it's perfect, and is impressed that the Comedian spotted it.

They set up, hunker down close together, and wait. If there's no movement in four days, they are to cancel the mission.

Four days.

-

The Comedian doesn't smoke at all. Smoking would give away their position to any potential look-outs, small as the clouds of smoke may be. It doesn't take long for him to become irritable, gnashing his teeth and glaring out at the jungle, forcing himself to chew through gum and chocolate bars slowly. That first night, Walter leans against the wall of the alcove and tries not to touch the Comedian with his legs. The dark outline of the Comedian's shoulders is hard to make out against the night; Walter does his best to sleep and ignore his alert, tense presence.

Really, the alcove is too small for two men to comfortably stay. When Kovacs is shaken awake the next morning, he catches himself hoping that it means their target is in sight - but no. The Comedian's eyes are lined dark under the mask and they trade places, the Comedian stretching out and resting his head on Walter's rucksack. He snores, but quietly enough that no one would suspect the sound. Kovacs is put at ease by the fact that he'll know if the Comedian is awake. (That doesn't stop him from glancing over his shoulder, nor does it stop him from edging away from the Comedian each time he shifts.)

The mosquitoes are always bad in Vietnam, but as the heat of late morning starts to rise from the earth, they seem intolerable. Kovacs watches with grim interest as a cloud of them passes down below; he wakes the Comedian long enough to let him spray himself down with mosquito repellent. It doesn't stop them altogether, but it helps.

Mid-afternoon, when Kovacs has just started to eat some C-rations, the Comedian wakes up with a wide, hushed yawn. Wordlessly, Kovacs opens up his chocolate ration and holds it out to him; he earns a bleary, bemused look. The Comedian shakes his head and rolls his shoulders, pops his back.

As he slaps a mosquito off his arm, he mouths something to Kovacs. He receives a blank stare; with a roll of his eyes, he does it again, slower this time. Kovacs has no idea what he's trying to convey; he's never been good at reading lips past simple, obvious words. Yes. No. Stop. Rorschach. Things like that.

The Comedian puts a hand on the back of Kovacs's neck, leans in close (until he can smell the stale smoke and mosquito repellent, until his chapped lips brush his ear), and whispers, "_I. Fucking. Hate. Mosquitoes._"

Goosebumps spring up all across Kovacs and he shivers before he can stop himself. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to resist the inane urge to laugh or scream or something, anything, and it occurs to him dimly that the Comedian has had his say but isn't letting go. He's just leaning, breathing against his ear, and he can feel him grin.

Kovacs pushes him off.

-

In the middle of the third night, Walter wakes up to the feel of something running up between his legs. He jolts to immediate wakefulness, startled, and the Comedian cuts off his noise of surprise with a firm hand over his mouth. He leans down, moving the hand between Walter's legs away. "Mornin', _mihn oi,_" he whispers into his ear. "Our boy's coming." He pulls away, leaving Kovacs struggling for breath and flushing deep in the dark, paralyzed by his shock for a moment. Then the Comedian's silhouette is pointing his rifle, flicking on the starlight scope, and the tempo in Kovacs's chest changes. This is it.

He slaps his helmet on and seizes his rifle, crouching next to the Comedian. At first he sees nothing; his fingers fumble with the pins of his grenades, straightening them. He has time to appreciate the Comedian's tact - nothing short of a mortar shot could have woken him faster or brought his mind to focus sooner. The Comedian glances at Kovacs. When he sees his blind searching, he points, and there - there they are, shadows moving through shadow, and Rorschach's focus whirs.

There's probably four men, at least in the primary group. He thinks he can see extra bodies moving further in front and further behind. Eight maximum, not counting any snipers laying in wait. Kovacs already knows what he must do, and it is Rorschach who will drop from the cliff and move in, drawing fire. Rorschach dressed as Kovacs, quiet as the earth.

All he needs to wait for is that first return volley.

He braces against the hard earth and nods, once.

The shot hardly seems to make a sound, and the Comedian doesn't curse, smiling and licking his lips. Success. He aims again, and Rorschach is ready, straining his ears for the return fire, because that will be his signal. It's the second shot that does it. There's an eerie stillness after the second shot, and Rorschach knows that the next will be from another sniper, just _knows_ it in his bones. There's a soft cracking sound to the left of them, and that's his cue. At least six men against two. Rorschach doesn't mind those odds.

It wasn't part of the plan, but when Rorschach moves, it is with as much stealth as possible. Bits of moonlight speckle the undergrowth as he slides towards the group, feeling for his grenades. Behind him, the cliff side is hit again. He's almost there; he can hear them. Their voices are muffled, as if the earth is drawing them in before the air can allow them to fully form - he grabs a grenade, pulls the pin - he can see the shadows of their eyes, of their down-turned mouths, and he can smell the fear.

He reels his arm back, braces, and throws.

His position is given.

-

The Comedian is a very, very good aim. Rorschach knows as much, but doesn't realize the extent until a man an arm's length away from him, leveling his rifle, convulses. Coughs. There's an arc of black that glistens in the moonlight as it splatters down.

Rorschach can see mosquitoes flying through the undergrowth.

There are periodic flashes of light (like cameras, almost, except they're not after his soul but his body).

-

It's peculiar. He can't hear the drone of the mosquitoes' wings. He can see a planet through a break in the canopy. It occurs to him that men have walked across the moon; the knowledge is dizzying, if meaningless. He's not sure when he ended up in the grass, and he's not sure who he is right now, or if it really matters either way. 

He thinks he hears something call to him.

-

" - you resilient dumb _fuck_, Christ, what are you, a god damn zombie?" Kovacs unwraps his cigarettes and holds them out, the movements mechanical. "Thanks, kid - I swear, when you went down I thought you'd been spooked. Might as well have been takin' a fucking _nap,_ for God's sake." They're watching the bodies burn. "If it'd been anyone else, any-fucking-one else, I'da thought this was a god damn _suicide_ mission." And then he's laughing, the sound echoing off the trees. Kovacs looks at him, watching a sweat drop roll from his temple down his cheek. His teeth glow orange in the light of the fire.

-

They rendezvoused with the platoon three days ago, and since then Kovacs has had a subtle clarity, like he's seeing the world for the first time. All around them is the cold brutality of New York (of _humanity_), but that's not really their enemy. Justice must come from the ground up; their war is one waged against the very essence of Vietnam and they must cloak themselves in the jungle, in the rice paddies, in the dull pagodas and worn women in long dresses; they have to _become_ it to destroy it. They have no choice.

And he feels sick. It's been a long time since his body has felt so tense and alive; he keeps catching himself thinking about the Comedian's hand tracing up the inside of his thigh and the rough way he pulled him off the ground and forced him to look at him (_Anyone home?_ he'd asked, unconcerned, and Kovacs had almost held his tongue). There's this _thing_ inside of him that's been there ever since the Comedian stepped off that first chopper, and he's been able to ignore it for so long. Kovacs doesn't think he can ignore it anymore. It needs to be expunged from him, one way or another.

-

There are worse alternatives.

So he rises, one late afternoon, as the platoon is settling in, and heads out through the jungle. He must go far enough that no one will accidentally find him, but not so far he will lose himself. He stops in a small space created by the roots of a tree; with an irritated scowl he brushes away the spider webs there and sinks down to the earth, kneeling with his back to the world. It's dangerous, but he can't afford distractions.

Underneath his fingertips, his mask is uncomfortably warm from his body. He can't remember the last time he's actually _seen_ it, and the pure, untainted white stuns him momentarily. The abstract beauty of it moves him in a way that he can't define; he recognizes it as the way he felt when he first saw himself in the mirror. _Validated._

Trembling hands repeat the motion that he's done hundreds of times before, fitting the mask over his head. It feels exactly as he remembers, and when he breathes, dark shadows begin to swirl in his eyesight. He waits. His face has always absolved him of human weakness; it has always allowed him to be stronger than Walter Kovacs. It allows him to be _Rorschach._ It removes him from the dregs of humanity and lets him have a higher purpose.

(The low pulse that has been insistent between his legs is not lessening.)

Rorschach can smell sugar, faintly, and the smoky pollution of New York runs over his tongue when he licks his lips. There's a steady loosening between his shoulders, down his spine, relaxing him down to the very ends of him, and he rests his forehead against the tree's trunk. Memories flit forward, hover bikes riding on gas clouds and the circular view of the city from Archimedes (and Nite Owl silently helping him stitch the back of his leg, and Nite Owl brushing a rag across the blood coming from his nose).

Rorschach carefully unbuckles his belt.

It's because he doesn't have the rest of his outfit, he thinks. It's because he has the burning desire to exact justice and no crime to pursue. It's not his fault. It's the war's.

He grips himself and shuts his eyes. He remembers the spark of sensation when the Comedian slid his hand between his legs, the sudden and abrupt surge of consciousness. The thought that he should remove his face occurs to him, but now that he's started pumping his fist, he can't stop; he's immobile to anything outside of the urgency coursing through him. It's been a very, very long time since he's done this.

As the pressure builds under his touch (brutal enough to punish for defiling Rorschach's face in such a way), his thoughts spin. The Comedian rests his hand _there_ and leans over and whispers. The Comedian pulls him up and forces him down again. Nite Owl's not stitching his leg, anymore, but his hand is still moving up. The Comedian lays the tip of a lit cigar against his neck.

Rorschach bucks into his hand, breathing heavily. Dimly, he realizes that he is going to have to clean up when he's done; he angles his hips out and rubs harder.

The Comedian touches the tip of his knife to Rorschach's cheek, and he's speaking to him in a low, urgent voice. _You're all right, kid,_ and his hand hasn't moved from between his legs, and out behind him the mosquitoes rise in clouds. The jungle smells of heavy earth and rain.

Ryan turns his head back and kisses his neck.

Daniel hold his lapels as they move through the darkness. _You don't have to go._

Rorschach's panting, now, and it's getting to the point where the tension _hurts,_ right before it all comes spilling out of him. He can feel sweat running under his face.

The Comedian hooks his fingers under the edge of his face -

He can feel it coming and whimpers a little at the sensation, rocking into his hand -

_Relax, mihn oi,_ and one hand is sitting still between his legs but the other is peeling his mask up, higher than he should, higher, higher - _You're in good hands_\- and it's rolling off and he's holding his hand there and kissing the crown of his head -

Rorschach orgasms, moaning brokenly. It sparks a deep ache but he doesn't stop right away, jerking harshly and shuddering all over. It's done, he thinks, bracing his forearms against the tree and staring blindly at his spots of come, soaking into the earth. It's done.

With hands that are still trembling, Rorschach tucks himself away and carefully readjusts his clothes. He rises to his feet, fishing for a handkerchief with his clean hand, and turns.

The Comedian is standing there, watching with a smile.

-

"Look who we have here," he says, teeth bare, and he does not hesitate to touch his fingers down.


	3. Chapter 3

There's a bruise on the Comedian's face. Kovacs watches him kneel by some of the men, gesturing at a Claymore antipersonnel mine and speaking. The men are all wrapped in ponchos against the rain, which has eased up from earlier but which still forces them to crouch in muddy patties, sinking nearly imperceptibly into the muck. The bruise on his cheek has nearly faded, now; it's an ugly yellow, almost invisible in the muddled light.

Kovacs doesn't know what color the bruises on his stomach are. He hasn't looked in a while.

They're breaking for lunch, but Kovacs is out of C-rations - the supply helicopter was due two days ago, and he's never kept more rations on him than necessary. Too heavy, too loud - and it's rare for the choppers to be late. Besides, he's used to hunger. It's not a problem.

"Hey." He doesn't look up, swirling his canteen between his knees. Ryan kneels behind him and leans so that his shoulder blades touch Kovacs's back. "I got a story you might appreciate. Y'know…because of him." He doesn't gesture but Kovacs knows that he's referring to the Comedian, and to the incident none of the men have asked about. His mask is heavy in his pocket; he wants to pull it out and show Ryan, to explain without words why the Comedian has that yellow bruise tainting his face. It's not something he's proud of.

Kovacs lets himself lean back fractionally, the initial chill of the contact seeping into warmth. That's his only concession to the conversation, but it's enough. It's not as if he has anything better to do. "I know this kid, back home. He and his sister and his ma lived alone for a long time, right, because their deadbeat dad ran out when he was just a kid. And his ma…she worked her ass off to support these kids. She loves 'em to death, yeah? Ended up doin' some pretty awful shit just to put food on the table." Kovacs bristles, but does not interrupt.

"One day, she finds this premo asshole. He's got bookoo bucks, though, and he's real slick, treats her like a queen. They get married. Must be a fairy tale ending, right?" He pauses, opening a can of C-rations and wordlessly passing a cracker to Kovacs, who's too intrigued by the story to bother interrupting the flow for an argument; he accepts it with a mental note to pay him back in full. "Well. The guy was all right. A smooth-talker, sure, and a bit of an ass, but not, y'know, a _monster._ Just a guy.

"Then, the kid's sister starts acting funny - she starts tryin' to sleep in the kid's room, starts reading these superman comics all the time. She gets _obsessed_ with the real ones." Across the clearing, the Comedian sets off the mine, laughing. Kovacs can't tell why from here. "Y'know. Nite Owl, Silk Spectre, Ozymandias, the works. Silk Spectre was her favorite…she said she was gonna grow up and be Ms. Silk Spectre III." He snorts and his warmth disappears briefly when he leans over to eat. "She wanted to meet them. Got real worked up about going to New York."

Kovacs can't feel anything outside of the dim horror trickling through his chest - he can guess where this is going, but is powerless to stop him, even if he wanted to. "Eventually, the kid figures it out. Turns out smooth-talkin' asshole's been hurting her. She just wanted a god damn hero, and her own - shit. Okay." He pushes the rest of his C-rations into Kovacs's lap and huddles up against the rain, resolutely leaning against his back. "Anyway…the kid flips it. Beats the shit out of the guy, and since he's just a kid the court decides to drop the battery charges. His mom tells him that if he brings up what he _'thinks'_ happened in courts, she'll kick the kid out of the house. They need that fucking asshole's money, see. So he keeps a closed lid and lets his sis sleep in his room every night and tries to get her to drop the hero shit."

Finally, he looks up, watching the Comedian through the rain. "Honestly, Kovacs…justice means shit, and if we have to rely on assholes like _that_ for little girls to get saved, I don't want 'em. Might as well find strength in yourself to fix your own damn problems."

"Not true." The sound of his voice surprises him. "Justice - true justice - will always be served." Turning, he looks at Ryan, hard, seething. "Write a letter to him. Tell him that he _will_ see retribution. That there are good men." 

Ryan just stares at him a second, dumbfounded. Then, he laughs, hard and without humor, pushing himself to his feet. "Sure. Sure. All right, then. God damn, Kovacs, you are a _dumbass_ sometimes." Without offering any explanation, he stalks off, lifting his shoulders against the rain. Kovacs only realizes once he's gone that he left his C-rations in his lap.

-

Some days are too brilliant, too bright to be real, and Kovacs can't trust them. They remind him of the benign disposition of therapists and coworkers, subject to change at the slightest provocation. He glares at serene white clouds as if daring them to transform into storm clouds, or to split suddenly with mortar rounds.

The Comedian feels the same - or, at least similarly, if his restless tension is any indication. They've gone all day without incident, which isn't rare, but it's been two weeks since they've seen any action at all. The Comedian fires off a few rounds into the trees, cursing and stalking around the men as if he's hunting. Restlessness compiles restlessness until the men speak too loudly and keep their fingers on triggers.

Kovacs keeps a hand over his mask and an eye on the Comedian. (The bruises have faded but he is ingrained in Kovacs's mind and it is a conscious effort to remain still.)

-

They're back at a base camp again when the Comedian announces to the Lieutenant that he received orders to join up with another squadron. The Lieutenant's hard-pressed to hide his relief and the men are hard-pressed to hide their disappoint. 

He stops by Kovacs's tent and stands at the entrance, watching him read. "I could pull the strings to have you transferred, y'know," he says, flicking his zippo open and shut, eyes trained on Kovacs. "Us masks oughta stick together in this hellhole."

Surprised, Kovacs looks up. He thought that their exchanging of blows had essentially cut them apart, despite the Comedian's silent dismissal of the matter. He was sure that any chances of true camaraderie had been shattered by his disease and inability to face the truth like a hero should - but the Comedian wants him to follow. "Why?"

The Comedian pulls from his cigar, studying him. "Just an offer, kid. I'll probably rendezvous with this shtick sooner or later." When Kovacs says nothing, he shrugs and turns away. "Lemme know."

-

To follow the Comedian through Vietnam would be maintaining a sacred brotherhood that masks, and only masks, can uphold. It would be like a dream, he thinks - always beside a hero, never before or behind. There is no doubt that he can trust the Comedian, not just with bullets and knives but with his back, with his front, with every inch of skin and sinew composing his body. In many ways, it would be like being on home turf again, side-by-side with Nite Owl, fists clenched and dangerous, lights and smog spread out below them. In many ways it _has_ been like that, ever since the Comedian joined up with his unit with the promise of heavy action.

There's no doubt that Kovacs is honored by the Comedian's offer and can't fathom that it should be a choice at all. There's also no doubt that without the steady reassurance of Rorschach's strength, Kovacs will inevitably succumb to a loss of control.

-

He keeps busy, volunteering for menial jobs - helping clean, helping other soldiers set up and take down tents and cots, practicing his aim on jungle flowers at the edge of the camp. It gives him time to think. One thing he is sure to do is keep consistent contact with Ryan, trying to investigate his story, which Ryan makes difficult. There's not much he can do, and he knows he should send a letter to Daniel with Ryan's address, let him investigate first-hand. Trouble is, he's certain that the moment Daniel has contact from a soldier, he won't be able to resist sending a letter back. The thought of receiving mail from him and no one else is enough to set him on edge. It's not hard for suspicion to lead to discharges, after all, and he is determined to serve his time.

Theoretically, he could instruct Daniel to not reply, to keep quiet, but Daniel's always been bad at listening to him off the battlefield (no, off the _streets_). Proper investigation will have to wait.

-

The night before the Comedian's due on a chopper out, he ducks into Kovacs's tent, bringing in rain and the pervasive smell of cigar smoke. Without fanfare he sits on the end of Kovacs's cot, shaking water off his head and nursing his cigar. Kovacs slowly sits up, conscious of the plain white wife beater that exposes too much of his body and the tiny wire owl clasped, hidden, in his hand.

"Hey," the Comedian mumbles. Thunder rolls at a distance. "Wake you up?" he asks, gesturing loosely at his pillow.

"No," Kovacs says, wary. "Haven't decided if -"

"I don't care." There's a pause; the Comedian's body lists to one side before straightening again. "No, I…you patrolled a lot, yeah, back in the States?" Without seeming to think about the act, the Comedian lifts a hand to his face and peels the edge of his mask back. Kovacs swallows and tucks the owl into his pocket, not sure if the question is hypothetical or not. It must be, because after a breath of silence, the Comedian continues, peering down at him. "I mean, not just with, y'know, the Owl kid. Danny or whatever."

"There wasn't much occasion to patrol with anyone else," he supplies, set on edge by the near-inaudible slur in the Comedian's voice.

"Right, right, _occasion._" Swallowing, the Comedian drops his cigar and scuffs it out with a boot. "But what about, y'know…Spectre's kid. You ever patrol with her?"

"A few times," Kovacs says, hesitant, not sure that they even worked together that often. When the Comedian says nothing to that, he adds, "She's difficult to work with."

The Comedian laughs. "No shit? Why's that not a surprise?" He leans back, settling his elbows between Kovacs's calves and ignoring the way he jerks in response. "She mention me?"

Kovacs remembers her complaining and arguing with him over every little comment ('offensive little prick' had seemed her favored observation), but he doubts any other crime fighters beside Dr. Manhattan cropped up in conversation. He considers lying. It seems important to him. "No," he decides finally.

"Figures."

"Apologies," Kovacs offers, wondering if it matters enough to warrant an apology. The Comedian shrugs and drags a wet arm over the blankets, close enough to Kovacs's thigh to make him pull away, teetering on the edge of his cot.

"Now," the Comedian murmurs, picking at his mask, "what _I_ don't get is you. People…they're scared of me. They think I'm an ass - heh, and they're right, but – but _you_ \- it's like you're looking through ro - nah, through squidgy lil' black-and-white glasses. I mean…I'm not a _hero,_ kid. I'm the fucking _Comedian._"

Finally Kovacs feels like they've reached ground he can handle - he's used to this argument. He and Daniel used to talk in circles about each of the Minutemen, but it was always the Comedian who brought the most vitriol to their conversations, making many patrols end short and bitter. "Not true," he calmly explains, raising his voice over a peal of thunder. "Even as an outcast from the Minutemen you fought for justice. You're a war hero. Have never shirked the duties your country made you bear. Have never given in to weakness." The Comedian just stares at him, mouth half-open, body relaxed in the dip he's created in the cot.

"Cute," he grumbles. "Real cute." With a grunt, the Comedian heaves himself to his feet and clasps a hand at the back of Kovacs's neck. "Listen -" For a moment he just looks at him with the rain falling down, damp skin edging across his neck, eliciting goosebumps and tense, coiled muscles. He almost says something else - teeters - then makes a noise that could be a laugh in any other context and straightens. He's gone without another word, hand over his forehead, stumbling in the rain.

-

He can't.

The men in his unit are his comrades; they work as a seamless group, know each other in ways that only time and the burdens of war can make men know one another. He can't abandon them, not with the possibility of his absence bringing the unit down, bogging them in the way fresh death does. He can't leave them.

The Comedian is unsurprised when he tells him. Two hours later, he's boarding a chopper, saluting the men with a wry grin; the blades drown out his laughter but his chest shivers with it, muscles taut.

The chopper lifts, lifts, tilts east, and is gone.

-

It's been three months since Kovacs last saw the Comedian, and he suspects he won't see him for the duration of his tour. He's not sure if it's a comforting thought or just the opposite - he'd been so _close_ to him, had connected to the Comedian in a way he'd only dreamt of as a child - but there was such a terrible breach of security, of identity. He tells himself it is for the best and does not think about the Comedian's hand between his legs or his fingers on his face or that first surreal battle, when he'd felt so _alive._

It's all irrelevant. All Kovacs must do is keep his eyes forward, keep his gun steady, and continue serving his country.

-

The sky is thick with plumes of smoke unfurling, and still the aircraft run over and over again, dropping napalm, littering the village and surrounding jungle with eerie pink and orange flames. The men in Kovacs's unit are pressing in, connecting with other troops and spreading out, taking what VC they can. Kovacs does not look at the women and children fleeing past them, does not watch the soldiers gun them down. He only moves.

His ears roar with sound and he thinks _this is war; this is just; this is just,_ and he almost believes it.

-

The weight of his mask isn't heavy. Oddly enough, he is most aware of the wire owl over his heart when he stops in front of the hootch.

He can smell the napalm, but he can also smell something a little like cigar smoke, and a woman inside is screaming.

-

She's on her knees, hands lifted in surrender, face streaked with tears. There are two bodies near her, still bleeding. They would still be warm.

"No, no, please, no," she cries, lapsing between Vietnamese and English, voice trembling. When she sees Kovacs, she begs; "G.I., Mr. G.I., please."

The Comedian looks back.

-

Kovacs does not hit. He does not bite or scream or aim his gun. He silently moves between the woman and the Comedian and kneels. _Don't,_ he does not say. _You are a good man._

The woman rises and runs, stumbling out. The Comedian flicks ash over Kovacs's uniform and unzips his pants. "If that's how it's gonna be," he says.

-

"Long time no see," he breathes, rolling his head back, and Kovacs keeps his hands on his thighs, tries not to think about the taste or the open door of the hootch or anything but what he must do to finish this. 

"Not bad," he says a few minutes later. He rocks into Kovacs's mouth.

"Guess that means you missed me," he laughs when Kovacs bends over, coughing. Kovacs shuts his eyes, wiping spit and - and spit from his mouth. The dark shape of the Comedian expands as he kneels, patting him on the back. "So who taught you that, huh?"

-

He's not sure what the worst part is - the fact that the Comedian touches him there at all, or the fact that he is already hard when he does.

-

"Don't tell your boyfriend," the Comedian whispers as he bucks up into his hand, biting down on his palm. "He'll get jealous."

-

He does not moan.

-

When the Comedian kisses him, it is startlingly gentle; his fingers thread up the back of his neck, teasing the hair there, and he strokes his cheek. "Comedian," he gasps when he pulls back. The Comedian stands, adjusts his pants, tilts his head to the side. "Comedian." What else is there to say?

The Comedian draws a pistol, winks, turns, and is gone. He's swallowed by vague silhouettes and bright light.

Kovacs looks at the bodies.

They would be cool to the touch, now.

-

Just like that, the Comedian rejoins their squadron; he makes no fuss about the transition and no one questions it, welcoming him back, eagerly swapping stories about the months he's missed.

Kovacs spends his nights watching the sky, touching his lips, doing his best to stay still. His dreams sway between nightmares and dreams where the Comedian lingers as a silhouette in doorways, and even as the Comedian wraps an arm around his shoulders and grins, the burn of self-loathing runs through his gut.

Because this is what he's always wanted (isn't it, his mind murmurs, haven't you spent nights dreaming about your heroes). Because it was a necessity - he couldn't beat the Comedian, couldn't hold his own against him without pressing the barrel of a gun to his temple - and although it wasn't what he wanted, although it had only been to save the woman, he'd _liked_ it.

(There is no safe side to take.)

-

They're moving further North than before and are going to start hitting tunnels, again. It's been a long time since they've had to deal with tunnels, a long time since he's had to draw a hard breath to nip back his hesitation. The Comedian is tagging along for the red-hot swathe that runs before and behind them - there's much more napalm than before, more villages charred and desecrated by violence. They're on a warpath, but it's one that Kovacs is having trouble standing on. If he could just straighten himself out, he could bear the weight of what his country asks of him.

The jungle sets him on edge; the rice paddies are worse. Kovacs grits his teeth and forces one foot in front of the other.

The Comedian touches his shoulder and does not think twice.

-

"All right," the Lieutenant says, holding his helmet out, "draw a number."

"What about Kovacs?" one of the soldiers asks, eyeing the half-covered mouth of the tunnel.

Kovacs, prepared already for the suffocating dark, squares his shoulders and looks up. Before he can agree, the Comedian speaks up. "Are you kidding me? What kind of pansy-ass makes another guy take the bullet for him?" The Comedian stomps over to the Lieutenant and shoves his hand into the helmet with enough force to knock free several slips of paper. "Draw a paper." (Even if he drew the unlucky number, he couldn't crawl into the darkness - but that's not what's important.)

Later, as Kovacs and the Comedian crouch side-by-side, not thinking about the dark, not thinking about being buried alive, not thinking about anything - he looks up and nudges the Comedian's arm. What he wants to say is _thank you_ and _I don't blame you_ and _you didn't have to,_ but soft green light is filtering over them and the words sound insincere even before they surface. The Comedian looks at him, raises an eyebrow, and flashes his teeth. Without seeming to think about it, he pulls a cigar from his belt and lights it, holding the flame open a few seconds longer than necessary.

"You got a brother, Kovacs?" he asks, snapping his zippo shut.

"No," he says, frowning. Behind them, empty terror sits unnoticed (they are not thinking about gleams of white in the dark, never do).

"Eh. Then you won't get it," the Comedian offers, and that is that.

-

(Kovacs is not lured by the Comedian's familiarity.)

-

It's a new moon and they are in thick jungle; Kovacs isn't afraid of the dark, but the way it seeps down into the bones and captures the mind's eye is unsettling. There are scattered patches of darker shadows in the gloom and the occasional dim flash of brilliance from flashlights, but besides the near-imperceptible hum of insects and running water close by, the night is silent.

Silence is worse for the noise the men produce in their sleep, rattling snores and sometimes mutters, sometimes subdued hysterics. Sometimes shift. After shift. And there's nothing that has ever made his insomnia worse or better than Vietnam - he's on his third night with no sleep, staring up into emptiness, and he could touch the wire owl in his pocket but it feels wrong, somehow. It feels wrong just thinking about it, just thinking about _Daniel._

Someone shifts, sits up. It must be after midnight, now.

A flame flickers in the dark, casting painful spots in his eyes, but Kovacs does not look away.

-

Kovacs is very, very good at keeping quiet. 

The Comedian has him pressed up against a tree, holding him there with the length of his body and a hand fisted in his hair. He's not focused on the sensations, recoiled from the idea that his body is thrumming with nerves and pleasure and an edge of panic. Instead he focuses on why he can do this, why he can let the Comedian kiss his neck and down along his shoulders and pull down his zipper. He thinks about the long struggle he has always faced, thinks about all his attempts to curb back his lust and the fact that it is only thanks to Rorschach - to his face, to his strong, clean, pure identity - that he has not been swallowed whole.

He thinks about the Comedian standing over a woman. And he thinks that he understands, now, that this is not a battle the Comedian can win - at some point he must have lost control of his desires and now can only act them out. The Comedian swallows and bites his ear and he's saying something to him but Kovacs doesn't hear it. He can't. Kovacs can't stand to let himself think about the fact that he used to collect articles and what small memorabilia he could get his hands on - he doesn't think at all about feverish nights where he dreamt about heroes, hands clasped in sheets damp with sweat.

This isn't - it's for the Comedian, that's all, just as much as kneeling was to save the woman.

"The fuck," the Comedian snarls in his ear. "Where the fuck _are_ you?"

He's not moving anymore, holding Kovacs by the hair, still, and watching him. "Here," he mumbles without really thinking about it. The Comedian doesn't laugh.

"D'you even want to do this?" the Comedian asks, glaring at him through the mask, fingers tightening, scraping. "Huh?" Walter says nothing, breathing as quietly as he can; he doesn't want the Comedian to know how badly this affects him. After a minute, the Comedian pulls back completely, looking at Walter for the first time with something like disgust and something like anger, but what Walter doesn't understand is the emotion tempering them both, turning it in. "Shit," he snarls. "_Shit._"

He turns, then, and if Walter let him, he would walk away - that would be it. Maybe even no harm done, nothing changed, just the Comedian trying to make him laugh and patting his shoulder and helping him bear the secret of his identity. There's no way to tell outside of asking outright, but Walter is not so sure that the Comedian is explicitly angry at _him_ \- and in a moment of startling clarity through the dim haze of lust, Walter thinks he understands. It's this damn _country,_ all of it, and - and they're supposed to be in this together (and there is punishment and forgiveness, and he _sees_).

It's not selfishness that makes him grab the Comedian's arm. It can't be.

The Comedian stops and looks at him; his eyes are indistinguishable in the dark. "Forget it," he says, jerking his arm away. "Don't know what the fuck I was thinking."

Walter straightens off the tree and fumbles his words for a moment, seeking purchase somewhere safe in the dark, trying to find a place for his hands to settle. "Stay," he orders more firmly than he feels.

"Like hell." But he hasn't made any further move to leave, shadows of his body all lined down, tired. "I make a living out of messing people up. What's the point of R&amp;R that gives me more shit to worry about?" There's challenge in his tone, but it's plain and not entirely invested. "Get some rest, kid." 

And he's gone, and Walter feels sick. It's not until he tries to open his canteen fifteen minutes later that he realizes how badly he's shaking.

-

There's a series of cracks, old and new, composing him. Walter has never felt broken or damaged and he detests human's insistence to quarantine those who don't see the world as politicians and Hollywood directors would have them see it. Still, he's sensitive to his body; he has taught himself to recognize sensations old as his birth. He has to, in order to clamp down on them, in order to turn them out again as will and sheer strength.

He knows that Daniel was right about the ambiguity of war fought in shadows - ever since his first footprints left their mark on red soil, he's felt the electric urge to scream, to tear the fury and terror out of himself, to disappear from this place and eviscerate it from his mind. He knows he is losing his ground. He knows that, if he is not careful, he will lose himself.

Maybe if the Comedian hadn't flown into their unit, things would be different. Maybe without him, Kovacs wouldn't feel Vietnam the way he does, crawling up inside him like one of her many parasites, sluggish and heated like the malaria her mosquitoes carry. Maybe the night life would only echo ghosts and not white, not rolling in the dark, not a heavy hand setting him on fire, nestled against his thigh. 

Kovacs has never liked passing blame.

(It is his own weakness that drives him, and only that.)

-

Kovacs can't determine a proper distance from the Comedian, even as he treats Kovacs with the same familiarity as before. There is something cold in the way he touches him, reserved, which is for the best. It _should_ be for the best, but Kovacs keeps remembering his epiphany and it doesn't feel right. They're still on a trail of tunnels, lugging heavy explosives as they go, and despite the Comedian's initial efforts to spread out the tunnel duty, Kovacs finds himself kneeling in front of fungal tunnels more often than not. It's a simple matter of being good at what he does. 

It's also a brief reprieve from the war, a simple step back. When he is straining his ears for any sudden sounds, he's not thinking about the Comedian or death or the world outside (or the world back home). There's a simplicity to it: Move in, scope the area, move out.

He tries not to check the Comedian's expression when he emerges, so only catches his hand on his shoulder. "You're a damn nutter," he says. The tone is benign; still, Kovacs keeps his eyes forward.

-

The mountains stand against the horizon, silent and still, wreathed in fog, their tips disappearing into the cloud line. They're marching towards them, and it's the first time Kovacs's unit has ventured into them; they all know the horror stories. The men don't shy away from murmuring about the things they've heard, and more and more tales about the ghosts that stalk the distant slopes crop up.

The jungle's different, up there, they say. Things become surreal, too quiet. Little sounds obscure the big ones, natural ones like wind and trees. It's easy to laugh off things that spook you in the day, but when night sets in on the mountains it's like another _world,_ one where Charlie only need stretch his fingers out to catch you.

Kovacs expects the Comedian to laugh the stories off - most of them are riddled in superstition, which the Comedian has little patience for - but he's getting quiet. When the men tell their stories, the Comedian listens with respect, smoking his cigars slow and easy. Kovacs can't help but wonder why the Comedian gives the men's paranoia the time of day, and when he finally ventures to ask, the Comedian only looks at him with raised eyebrows. The expression is close enough to pity to make him bristle.

-

On their second day marching up into the mountains, they come across an old, bombed-out pagoda. They scout it out - after all, it could be a good place to base their operations - and find a single corpse inside. There's no flies on it, oddly, and when the men move it, sitting it up against the outside wall, they discover it hasn't yet bloated.

"Where'd you come from, huh?" the Comedian asks, adjusting the corpse's clothes. "Wander in here hopin' some monks would help you out?" Kovacs sits to the side and watches, scowling. He's used to bodies by now. After all, he'd seen his fair share back at the States. What he's not used to is the casual way the soldiers treat the bodies; easy, on the edge of disrespect.

"Better luck next time, eh?" Carl Morris says, patting the man's head. Ryan kneels next to Kovacs and cracks open a C-ration.

"Damndest thing," he mutters, poking at his stew. "He's not even a monk. That I'd expect."

"Good thing we missed him," Kovacs growls. "Likely a sniper." 

"Hmm." Ryan shrugs, the subject already behind him.

The Comedian straightens up, pushing to his feet; he's humming something, but Kovacs can't place the tune. One of the men laughs, off to the side; Kovacs stands and follows the Comedian into the pagoda. He's stalking around the edges of it, peering at the destruction and kicking at stones. He pauses his humming when he notices Kovacs watching him. "Y'know I haven't been in one of these that ain't been destroyed somehow?"

"The pagodas specifically?" he asks, not particularly interested in the answer. The Comedian laughs, short, but doesn't answer, patting the side of the building with something like affection. This isn't the right time or place, and Kovacs doesn't want to do this at all; but he thinks about what he has learned and of the mask in his pocket and knows that he can't back down. "Comedian," he begins, squaring his shoulders.

The Comedian starts humming again, raising an eyebrow at him.

"I need to clarify something," he says. Suddenly the Comedian is grinning.

"Don't even start that shit." He stalks towards Kovacs, still grinning, brandishing his cigar like a loaded gun. "Kid. Darlin'. _Mihn oi._ I don't know what's goin' on in that fucked up head of yours, but you ain't talking to me about _nothin',_ got it?" Kovacs forces himself to maintain a steady stare, not backing down. He's resolved, poised - he has a purpose and will not be deterred. "There's nothing to talk about. Capice?"

"Not true," he starts, but before he can get another word in the Comedian brushes past him, humming loud enough for the sound to echo off the broken stones.

-

By the end of the day, Kovacs knows what the Comedian was humming, if only because half the platoon is singing their own versions of "Favorite Things." Most of them favor the Comedian's version - "Streamers and napalm and gooks dead in churches - these are a few of my favorite things." 

It's almost funny, Kovacs thinks, except for the bad taste it leaves in his mouth. Vietnam hasn't sunk into him so deeply yet.

-

It's difficult to tell if there really is a difference in the mountains, once they're there, or if it's just the dull paranoia that's settled over their unit. The tension's not helping Kovacs, who hasn't given up on his attempts to get the Comedian alone. Every time the Comedian starts acting restless, Kovacs stays close to him, trying to tell him without words that they should _go._ If the Comedian knows what he's trying to convey, he doesn't bother complying.

It's made worse by the fact Kovacs still hasn't decided how to handle the situation. He knows he values their camaraderie, as tenuous as it may be - but he doesn't know what pushing himself onto the Comedian will achieve, if it's protect the Comedian or the nameless, faceless would-be victims. It can't be selfish; Rorschach still thrums just under his skin, after all. But he can't stop thinking about New York and her polluted nights or clouds of mosquitoes singing under the alcove where he and the Comedian rested.

-

The unit's a day away from their target location, marching in wary silence through the thick mountain jungle. Even without clouds they would be cast in heavy shadow, but there are patches of solid gray when they pass under breaks in the canopy.

Ryan breaks formation long enough to stride up to Kovacs; he doesn't look at him when he murmurs "How ya hanging?"

"10," grumbles Kovacs, adjusting his rucksack, eyes and mind on the Comedian. "Don't like the cloud cover," he adds before Ryan can ask questions.

"Well, shit, we're _in_ the clouds," he says with a smirk. They walk together in comfortable silence a moment, then Ryan turns his head, not quite looking at Kovacs. He runs a hand just under his flak helmet and licks his lips. "Listen," he says, and stops. Flat voice, flat expression, staring into the trees. Kovacs tilts his head, sensitive to his body and the quiet tension in the air. He hears nothing. "Listen to that," Ryan breathes, barely a whisper. Then, grim, he shakes his head and lags back, pulling his gun closer. When Kovacs looks after him, there is a firm expression, knowing, on his face. His eyes are dark.

-

It's raining when they stop for the night and too dark to see more than vague shapes - trees looming where men should be and quiet murmurs in blackness are the only indications of where the rest of the platoon is. The Comedian stands arm-to-arm by Kovacs, kneeling when he does and lighting his cigar by feel. He's humming that song, soft enough that only Kovacs can hear him; it crawls under Kovacs's armor and makes him feel like he's fraying. It's not _annoying,_ no, it's unsettling in a way too tenuous to really grasp.

"The fun's only starting," the Comedian whispers, tapping loose ash off the tip of his cigar. "Tomorrow, we're gonna see these mountains burn." Which is the idea, but it doesn't feel right except by feeling wrong.

Kovacs moves out of the loose ring of soldiers, gripping his M-16 with hands that are unafraid. The Lieutenant whispers to him that he has five minutes to piss before they search for him; he doesn't bother to acknowledge the order in any way. There's a familiar pull at his muscles, not quite adrenaline, so much like the first few months he patrolled as Rorschach. Things are clear, uncomplicated. He doesn't go far, though he wants to - there's a chanting from the earth up that he knows is only in his mind; but still, but _still,_ he feels helpless to defy the call, whether from New York or from the jungles of Vietnam.

When he's zipped up his pants again, he moves four more steps out, just four, that's all, just far enough - he sucks in a low, deep breath and lets it out. The rain shudders down the canopies and strikes him, belated. He's lit from a high that might not be natural, because it's _not_ adrenaline, it's - but it's what?

He comes back to himself with clean violence (a knife across his leg) when he hears movement. He's not alone.

_He's not alone._

Kovacs crouches down and looks, wanting desperately to shine his flashlight and knowing it would only kill him faster. So he waits. It doesn't take long before the figure materializes, shadow from shadow, wide white eyes gleaming in the dark.

-

She can't be older than eight, spindly bare arms seared by napalm, probably. The moment she steps out of the shadows, half a moonbeam cutting down her thin shoulder, chest, stomach, Kovacs feels the dull start of panic. She is very likely a decoy or a direct threat, he knows that - knows that to let her go would be just as dangerous as taking her back to his unit. He knows the stories. He knows the things they have to do in the name of their country.

But she's not afraid of him and her expression is not dazed or hostile. It's flat, not even tired, though she stumbles out of the moonlight to lean against a tree, touching only with the tips of her fingertips. Kovacs is paralyzed by indecision and a bitter taste in the back of his throat. She needs help. The burns look moist, the only thing shining in the dim light other than her eyes. If there are other Vietnamese in these mountains, it's plausible that she will find them, and that they will care for her. If there aren't, she won't survive. If there are, she may be a ruse; if there aren't, she'll die. If there are, he is endangering the lives of his brothers by not pulling the trigger. If there aren't, he will have killed an innocent girl for nothing.

She shifts, the sound of her body muted by the natural sounds of the night.

Walter lowers his gun, very slowly. When he walks towards her, she presses against the tree; her head turns away as if she can make him disappear by sheer force of will. It's a familiar pose, though he doesn't quite know why.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he murmurs, though he doubts she speaks any English. "_Friend,_" he tries, the Vietnamese rocking uncomfortably on his tongue. "Let me -"

When his hand lands on her shoulder, she whimpers, shudders once, but stays still, very still. She's not looking at his M-16 or ammunition belt or anything but his face, and he admires the courage it must take for her to stare up at him so frankly. Good. It means she's strong, that she'll make it by force of wanting to live. "Come with me," he says.

Walter rises to his feet, beckoning with a firm gesture that she can't miss, even in the dark. She shakes her head, not frantic or afraid, still bearing the level stare that makes him second-guess the reality of her. "I'm going to help you." For the first time in many months he feels no guilt for wanting Daniel with him; he's always known how to earn victims' trust. "Come." This time when he beckons he takes her thin wrist in his free hand; the bones of her wrist are frail under his touch, the edges of her skin rippling with healing burns and he'd feel guilty for touching her wounds, but she doesn't show any pain on her face.

Careful, watching her with every step, he leads her back to his unit.

-

The Comedian sees them first and his grin, illuminated by the red embers of his cigar, falls. He leads her past the men without looking at any of them, shoulders and back straight; their panic lances through them like a whirlwind, translating to aggression suppressed only by their orders (and maybe, too, by a resonant fear of Charlie). The Lieutenant stands to meet him halfway across the clearing, livid. 

"The hell do you think you're doing?" he hisses. There's rustling on all sides, soldiers adjusting their holds on weapons, attention pinning them to the spot. The girl shifts her hand in Kovacs's and leans close.

"She's hurt," he rasps back. "Needs medical attention."

Behind him, someone rises to their feet.

He knows before the Lieutenant replies that he's made a terrible mistake. 

-

The mission is put on hold. 

Kovacs is given explicit orders to stay still after he gives a soldier a concussion. The man had made to hurt the girl, already crouched down into a stress position, arms straight behind her, held in place with a branch and hasty knot work. That was an hour ago. Since then the Comedian's taken up stalking around the camp, weaving between the girl and the men standing guard around her and between Kovacs and the men watching him.

Her breath is harsh and panicked; pus oozes down the length of her arms. Even from his distance, Kovacs can see her body trembling from the strain and it doesn't matter that there's no weaponry on him; this isn't _right,_there's not even a translator here yet and won't be for days but they're still forcing her to keep the painful position as if they'll really glean any information from her. They say it's necessary. 

_It's your fault,_ a voice nags at the back of his mind. It vibrates at his skull, a constant condemnation, and for all the glances the Comedian throws his way, he's alone.

His orders are to let them do what they must to ensure she's not a threat.

He buries his fingers into the smooth warmth of his mask and feels something resolving itself.

-

"Let her rest." The sound is far away, disconnected from the shuddering of his hands. "Let her _go._" The Comedian stalks by, grinding out a cigar. "No proof of guilt, she's only a _child,_ can't defend herself. _Let her go._" The Lieutenant ignores him, rubbing at the sweat collecting at his neck. 

This is war, after all.

-

Ryan is holding his arm in a vice grip. "Just shut up," he whispers, disjointed. "OK? This isn't…"

It's been two hours since she started sobbing from the stress, loud, telling cries that they silenced with a gag.

"Shit." He buries his face in his hands, not looking, not looking, not seeing what's right in front of him. Kovacs has a sudden, intense image of strangling him, hands closing tight around his pale throat, tighter until the vessels in his eyes burst; let him look and never turn back and see that this isn't, it's not even close to a spectrum of _right_ it's

-

There's spittle drying on her chin and wetness streaking the insides of her legs and the backs of her arms where infection runs as blood, now, deep cracks opened and it's too close to things rotting in his stomach. He doesn't feel sick, anymore.

The Comedian's remaining quiet, an animal prowling around the camp's perimeter, lip curled, forearms rippling every time he touches his pistols.

He doesn't feel sick, no; something hard is unfurling in him and he is calm, very calm, even with the concussed soldier cursing and palming the butt of his gun with violent eyes. Oh, no, not sick. The mask in his pocket is burning against his thigh, a totem for how the blood pulsing through him must be used. Will be used.

He can't let the innocent suffer. Some things must remain pure.

-

"Comedian," he says, gravel-hard. "May I ask you a question."

He pauses behind Kovacs, hard heels scraping up the earth as he decides. With a shrug, he kneels by his side.

Kovacs looks at him. He does not apologize, and when he slips the Comedian's pistol from its holster, there is no surprise in his face and no resistance.

-

There's not even really any sound from the gunshots, not that Kovacs hears, though he feels the vibrations up through his chest. As if they have been waiting for this moment, the men hit the ground, so many heavy sacks of useless flesh. The third round splinters bark over a tree, the fourth explodes the earth by the Lieutenant's head. Now the Comedian grins, hoisting up Kovacs's weapons and rucksasck, though Kovacs doesn't know why and doesn't bother thinking about it. He tears away the gag from the girl's mouth and unbinds her wrists, amazed in a dull way that he didn't act sooner, ashamed in a visceral way. He thinks the barbs will never leave. He hopes they don't.

Although she must be too weak now to run, she does, not looking back once, staggering footprints in her wake. She will die. Alone, in the dark, haunted by men pacing as she crouched, fondling their guns as if considering killing her but not yet, never quite yet. He wonders if she really understood what they wanted from her; finds himself selfishly wondering if she hates him, too, before shutting it down, snapping back the gun with a satisfying click.

"Radio," he says, so much steadier than he feels. (The world spins under him and he's already a wearing a mask, isn't he?) The Comedian is laughing without sound, firm on his feet. "Would like to borrow it, please."

"Sure thing, kid." He tosses it to him and starts to unwrap the foil from another cigar. Kovacs kneels by the Lieutenant and rifles through his bag. The Lieutenant doesn't try to stop him. He takes out a map. Calls in an air strike.

Carefully, he replaces the map to its rightful place, then stands. Already the Comedian is disappearing into the bush, lighting the way with bright red and white stripes and a stream of smoke.

Kovacs follows. There's not much else to do.

-

They walk, and they walk.

Kovacs doesn't know where they're going, nor does he care. He just wants to shed everything away until he is raw, just bones and hard conviction. Everything is out of focus, the night spinning out on all sides and his face lead weight in his pocket. He doesn't know who he is, isn't sure that he won't disappear into the thick mountain jungle, another ghost to stalk down white-eyed soldiers.

The Comedian curses under his breath.

-

Wherever the Comedian is going, they don't reach it before the planes come; the Comedian cranes his neck back, sweat-tracked face crinkling in the dim light. They don't stay still long, but each second frays at Kovacs's nerves until the desire to keep moving becomes a need.

"Comedian," he snarls.

Chuckling, the Comedian turns away from him and pushes aside some undergrowth with his rifle. "Don't get your panties in a twist," he calls over his shoulder. The sound of bombs making contact fills the air from behind them, a rush of heat following. Kovacs thought they were further than this. He tries to remember the exact orders he gave, but the memory feels tight, too small and vague, so he gives up. The Comedian will keep them out of range. 

The night starts to glow like a bloody sunset; the Comedian's face, ever-turned forward, is blacked out by shadow. His shirt is darkened by sweat.

They don't stop before the planes do.


	4. Chapter 4

"Here we are," the Comedian announces, slinging Kovacs's bag onto the thin grass. "Home sweet home." Kovacs blinks in the warm light, faced with the same pagoda as before, its walls appearing somehow more desecrate for the sharp shadows of midnight. He's sweltering, sweat rolling down the back of his neck and under his helmet. "'Least until I figure out what the fuck to do with you."

Kovacs isn't tired, but follows the Comedian into the shelter of the pagoda. The roar of the mountains burning is dimmed by the concrete walls, an insistent hum behind him. Always at his back. There are many things wrong with this, from his unquestioning insistence on following the Comedian to the leftover warmth from his pistols in Rorschach's palms, the recoil that still runs through his arms.

He can change so little, now. But he can face what he's done.

The Comedian is speaking from the heavy shadows, hunkering down and dismantling his guns. Kovacs doesn't hear him. He steps back out and turns, watches the fire unfurl against the sky, smoke blotting out the stars. 

He thinks about the crimes unchecked in New York City.

He thinks about home, and about how little it matters that he is not there.

He thinks about Daniel, and of all the things he will never understand.

-  
An hour later, the Comedian steps into the pagoda's doorway, and there he stays, watching Kovacs. He isn't smoking, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

"Take a picture," he calls out.

Kovacs recognizes it as the command it is, but he can wait all night for the flames to subside, for the mountains to settle again. He doesn't move except to rub at his wrist, resisting the urge to press his hands into his pockets. The Comedian's body slants in Kovacs's peripheral vision, probably leaning against the wall.

After a minute, he curses. "Rorschach," he says, more to himself than to Kovacs. Kovacs looks at him, then, startled to hear the name from him. That's not… "Rorschach," he calls, louder this time, "get your ass in here. You can overanalyze later." Without waiting for an answer, he turns and steps back into the cool darkness of the building.

Kovacs touches his pocket. The mask underneath is a firm ball against his thigh, real enough to startle him.

Rorschach, he'd said.

Kovacs slips out the mask, letting it uncurl in his palm. It is not who he is, but it is close enough; he pulls it on and follows after the Comedian, leaving the fire behind him.

-

The Comedian grins around his cigar as he talks, turning a piece of rubble over and over in his hands. "So what they know is that you're due Stateside in two months." Smoke spirals up from his mouth. "That about right?" Rorschach nods, shifting against the wall. "Some government goon's gonna talk to you about contracts, and he'll probably try to weasel your identity out of ya."

"Do they know yours?" Rorschach asks, struck by acute curiosity. He's never wondered before what the Comedian's real name was, but the idea that the government knows his civilian identity while other masks don't sits uncomfortably with him.

"Sure they do." He shrugs as if it doesn't matter. "Anyway, at this point you and the rest of that squadron are MIA. Got a back-up identity?" Rorschach thinks of Daniel, the extensive measures he's taken, and shakes his head. "Hmm. Don't know the legalities of gettin' your name changed; bet you can get it done in 'Nam and carry it over to the States, though. The hardest part will be the plane ride back; Customs is a bitch. You still got your pay?"

"Yes," he says, not particularly concerned about any of this. He expects he will die in Vietnam and that none of it will matter. 

"O-kay then, if worse comes to worse, you can just buy a civilian ticket and jet on out of here." Considering the matter closed, the Comedian scrapes his cigar out against the wall and flicks the stub to a far corner. "I told command we'd stick around tonight and tomorrow, keep an eye out for the rest of the boys." There's a moment where he frowns at Rorschach, the tilt of his head making the white diamonds of his domino mask gleam, dangerous, in the night. "So get some sleep."

Rorschach considers arguing. After all, he's not a child and doesn't need to be told what to do and when to do it. He won't be able to sleep, he knows that already; the signs of insomnia tremor through his body (disposable flesh and bones), making his eyes burn and hands feel weak. He doesn't. Shifting low against the wall, Rorschach folds his arms across his chest and shuts his eyes; he takes care to level out his breathing, letting the Comedian believe he's complied.

The Comedian laughs, the sound so soft and bitter that Rorschach almost thinks he is dreaming after all.

-

Walter Kovacs is missing, and he thinks he prefers it this way.

Morning finds Rorschach in his off-white undershirt, frowning at his jacket and trying to determine how best to remove the name. It's a menial task but it's something to focus on other than the Comedian's restless pacing. They've managed not to talk to each other all morning, aside from the Comedian asking for Rorschach's spare cigarettes, which hardly counts as the exchange lasted a total of three words. Rorschach frowns at his small pair of scissors and mulls over the methods available to remove his nametag. (He does not look at the mountains.) Maybe the Comedian has a Swiss army knife. That would at least give him something smaller to cut the threads with. It won't do to walk around Vietnam with a hole in his jacket.

He turns the procedure over in his head a few times, letting his hands rest over the warm fabric. Stretch; cut; careful with the thread. Whether he throws away the actual name or keeps it doesn't matter, really, but he still considers the question. Several yards away, the Comedian hefts up a rock. Dirt streams off it in the moment before he lobs it into the foliage, breaking open a space that is closed again with a casual resettling.

The Comedian's knife will do well enough, he decides. "Comedian." He doesn't say it loudly, but still the Comedian turns back, hand moving to the pocket where his cigarettes are. "Your knife. May I use it?" 

"Sure, whatever, kid," he grumbles, unhooking it from his boot. Rather than walk over, he tosses the knife handle-first; it falls a few inches short and skids to a stop by the collar of his jacket.

Rorschach lifts the knife and twists it in the dim light. He's always preferred knives to guns; they're easier to deflect, of course, but more than that he appreciates their duality and versatility. Although he's never bought a knife of his own (too expensive, for one), he values them as the one simple artifact any man can use to survive anything.

The Comedian's staring at him. Too tired to feel self-conscious, Rorschach pulls the jacket into his lap and sets to work.

-

By mid-afternoon, it's hot enough that Rorschach wants to take off his mask. Instead he stalks around the perimeter and rolls it up to the bridge of his nose, rolling it back as soon as the sweat on his jaw has cooled. He's feeling just as restless as the Comedian. Several times he catches himself standing still, turned towards the mountains, shoulders high around his neck and body wired for a fight.

It passes the moment he notices it; he reminds himself that the only thing worth hoarding is the lesson.

-

"What I still don't get," the Comedian says, hours later, "is why the fuck you had to do anything." Rorschach looks up from his C-rations, almost grateful for the distraction except for the edge to the Comedian's voice. He pushes off the pagoda's wall and makes his way towards Rorschach, kicking red dust up as he comes. "_Any_ of you. You that bird boy, Ozy-fucking-mandias…Sally's girl," he adds, mouth thin. "You all pull that shit."

Rorschach narrows his eyes and stands, recognizing the Comedian's behavior for what it is. Evidently he's tired of waiting. "Don't be presumptuous," he growls.

Before he can elaborate, the Comedian grabs him by the front of his shirt, heaving him onto the balls of his feet with one upward jerk of his arm. "Pre_sumptuous?_ For Chrissakes, all of you got this idea that America _needs_ you. That citizens need you. That that little girl needed you."

Rorschach scrapes at the Comedian's hand, rocking his weight back; the Comedian doesn't let up, knocking his helmet off. "Stop," he gasps, realizing now what this is coming down to, and it's not - it's too - something raw claws at his throat and he is already resolved within himself; he doesn't need to _hear_ this.

"Hell, I bet you did a fucking dance when your draft notice came in the mail. Bet you just couldn't _wait_ to finally have America _asking_ you to help, huh? Bet ya felt like a big man." He releases Rorschach with a shove that sets him off-balance, almost knocking him over. "But that's not why you're really here." Now he's grinning, laughter just under his breath, the white diamonds of his mask brilliant in the low light. "Because you're here for the same - goddamn - reason - I am."

Walter backs away from the Comedian's advance, the heel of his boot knocking his helmet; it skids away, its long shadow rippling over the ground. "No," he counters, refusing anything other than a level voice, "I'm here because -"

"You were _bored,_" the Comedian interrupts. "You wanted to _fight._ Well, guess what - you fought." Walter's back hits the cracked wall of the pagoda; he wants terribly to rip his mask off, but the Comedian is cornering him, heat rolling off him. The smell of smoke clings to him. "Ain't nothin' wrong with that." The words are casual, suddenly, what little of his expression Walter can see benign, almost thoughtful.

There is a beat of silence in which the Comedian regards him, head cocked to one side, arms loose at his sides. Then he lifts a hand, tugs Rorschach's mask with his forefinger and thumb; his neutrality turns into a tilted smirk.

Something inside of Walter snaps into place.

He shifts, winds back his arm, and hits the Comedian across the face with all the force he can muster.

-

There's no question about it - the Comedian is a better fighter. He has more experience and more bulk on his side; he can take many more hits without going down.

Kovacs doesn't care. 

He knows how to fight opponents larger than him, and he has had a lifetime to learn how to tolerate pain. Many times he's had to endure his body breaking down, and he will endure it many more times; bruises are like a second skin, one he layers on rather than sheds (just like his mask, suit, gloves (fatigues and helmet)).

And napalm opens inside him; bright tracer rounds unfurl through his fists. He doesn't care, he doesn't _care;_the validation he seeks is only the solid connect of fist to flesh.

-

It's the Comedian who ends it, leaning away from a kick and catching Kovacs's next strike in his palm. With more force than he's used so far, he flows his body weight into a well-aimed uppercut. For a second, there are sparks; a flash of pain; then, there is nothing.

-

At first, Kovacs can't hear anything outside of the ringing in his ears. The sound gradually transforms to the low tone of the Comedian's voice, the soft click and hiss of a lighter, something that is probably laughter. The rise and fall of his voice manifests gradually into a stream of grumbling. Kovacs opens his eyes and the world is not distinctly different from the way it was. He can't see the sun anymore, though the orange glow is still strong enough for Kovacs to narrow his eyes and roll his head away from the trees' horizon.

"Well g'mornin', _mihn oi,_" the Comedian exhales. Kovacs blinks at him and tries not to wince; one of his eyes is swollen. "Back to the land of the living." He sucks meditatively on his cigarette, letting the smoke out in short puffs; every bit of aggression remains from before but it's maintained, held in check. There's a thin line of blood that stops under his mask, half-dried.

Kovacs's mask is a crumpled ball in the dirt several feet away. His wire owl is in the Comedian's hand. Biting down on the spike of vulnerability that catches in his chest, he sits up. Fixes his face into neutrality. He finds that it isn't hard.

"I'm givin' it another hour," the Comedian tells him, holding up the small owl to the light. "For the choppers."

Kovacs reaches his hand out, careful to keep the stretch from turning into a plea. The Comedian looks at him, watches the steady way he holds his hand, and for a long moment does not offer any sense of relief. The urge to snatch up his face fills Kovacs; he wants to reclaim that steadiness to demand the owl back, rather than have to remain patient and trust.

The Comedian pats his cheek and leans in.

-

His body aches terribly as it is, bruises half-formed unraveling down his chest and stomach. The Comedian wasn't toying with him, taking every movement as seriously as Rorschach needed.

His mask rests in a crumpled ball several feet away. His face.

When the Comedian fists his hands in his jacket and pins him down, Kovacs doesn't struggle, because this is what he's wanted for so long, for long enough that leaning into the earth feels like a baptism in hard dust. There is no need for penitence; he doesn't seek a clean conscience. There is taking. Those are the only terms.

-

"I just -" Kovacs says as the Comedian peels open his jacket. The words surprise him; surprise both of them, judging by the way the Comedian stops and turns his head to stare. He swallows and grabs the straps of the Comedian's costume, pulling against him so he won't look in his face. "Just want to balance out what's been done." There.

The Comedian's breath is humid on his neck, one of his hands slowly working down the bruises of his ribs. Kovacs is already half-hard. "'S that what you think?"

"The world can be made better." For the first time in what feels like years, he brims with conviction, true and fierce.

And the Comedian just laughs, the sound vibrating over Kovacs's neck. "You really believe that bullshit? Christ, kid." Hooking two fingers in the band of Kovacs's pants, he slides them down over his hips. "You think you can justify _any_ of this?" He accentuates the question with a firm stroke down Kovacs's cock; when he only shudders and readjusts his hold on the Comedian, he snorts. "I'd like to see you try." 

-

Kovacs grinds his heels into the earth as he jerks up against the Comedian's hand. The motion is too slow, a casual stroking along his length that isn't firm enough or consistent enough to draw anything substantial out of him. The Comedian doesn't kiss his mouth; instead drags his lips and teeth along his neck and shoulder, sucking on bruises.

Holding Kovacs by the back of his neck, the Comedian murmurs, "You like it like this?" The stroking slows, stops altogether.

"Hnn." He hooks a leg behind the Comedian's thigh, forcing them closer despite the dull pulse of pain that accentuates his arousal. (It always felt a touch too close to pain on muggy nights, anyway, hand clasped around himself and the quiet chant of _finish, finish_ running through his head.) The firm bulge of the Comedian's erection rubs against his thigh and then, with a twist of his hips, Kovacs.

"Needy little bitch, aren't ya?" the Comedian mutters into his ear. The feel of the words makes him shiver; the implications make him bristle.

"Not asking much," he snaps. A sharp buck up rewards him with a spike of pleasure and a soft grunt from the Comedian, whose free hand works at undoing his belt. His straps hang loose on his shoulders, tracing sensitive lines across Kovacs's stomach every time he rocks forward.

Kovacs shuts his eyes, clenches his hand around the Comedian's shoulder, braces the other against the ground. The Comedian's hips roll against his, steady now despite the fumbling it takes to push his pants down and away.

"All right c'mon," the Comedian breathes, hooking an arm around his waist. It takes a moment for the order to process, but when it does Kovacs hastens to comply, lifting his hips. Where the Comedian grinds against him it's hot, uncomfortably so, but the air on his face is cooling and the warmth lancing down his neck is at least his own, more manageable for the mountains standing and what they mean about the human condition.

Kovacs stares into the Comedian's face and finds only that the violence of his hands around Kovacs's thighs do not reach his expression."Stupid bitch," the Comedian curses, adjusting Kovacs's legs around him and angling his thrusts lower, not quite fucking him. The words don't sting like they should, but still Kovacs turns his head away, clutching fistfuls of dirt to avoid touching him more than this.

It hurts when the Comedian rocks into him, but it's the Comedian who keeps up a steady stream of expletives and groans, fucking him deeper until each thrust meets skin to skin; the force makes Kovacs's pale erection rubs the thin cotton of his undershirt. For now it's just an alien fullness, the pain ebbing into the same familiarity of his bruises as he acclimates to each thrust. For now it's the feeling of emptiness or anger replaced by something Kovacs has trouble tamping down on when he looks into the Comedian's face again. 

"The fuck is your problem," the Comedian pants. One of his hands leave the curve of Kovacs's lower back, traces through his hair. The motion is very gentle. 

Kovacs opens his mouth to tell him - to tell him _something,_ but the sentiment becomes a sharp inhale when he adjusts his sweaty knees higher on the Comedian and the next thrust strips pleasure through him. The Comedian bows low over him, bending him back enough that Kovacs starts to pant; he doesn't speak louder than whispers, cursing Kovacs even as he runs his fingers through his hair, gentle, gentle. 

"What am I gonna do with you," the Comedian groans, and something brittle in his voice makes the pain and pleasure coalesce into its breaking point; Kovacs orgasms with his mouth open against the Comedian's cheek, the intensity of it rolling in waves with each of the Comedian's thrusts.

Slowly, the Comedian edges out of him, skin flush in the changing light. He moves as if he's going to kiss him but then stops; somewhere between, his mind is changed, and Kovacs does not wonder why.

Without a word, the Comedian rises to his feet and steps away; he doesn't stop until he's out of sight. He won't return until nightfall.

-

Rorschach turns his helmet in his hands over and over again.

He stands; paces along the edge of the clearing.

He becomes Kovacs and does not worry. He becomes Rorschach. Kovacs. Rorschach.

He finishes off a can of C-rations.

He waits.

-

He's in a deep sleep when the Comedian kneels by him with a crunch and shakes him awake. "C'mon," he says, sharp white grin, "we got a little business to attend to." Pressing a pistol into Rorschach's hand, he rises and turns. This time, Rorschach follows; he takes a moment to sling his rucksack over his shoulders. It's evident in the Comedian's swagger that they're not coming back.

-

They don't talk, and Rorschach is glad of it, marching behind the Comedian with his pistol thudding against his thigh. The mission must be one that's obvious, one that requires little finesse, because the Comedian isn't speaking as they go. 

It doesn't take long. Maybe an hour; the sky's still dark over the thinning jungle except for the soft orange glow that rises at the edges. Rorschach can hear the sounds of war, bombshells and bullets echoing through the paddies ahead, sinking into the trees. Rorschach's heart starts to pound in his chest, tingling, a preemptive rush taking him by the throat. Underneath the mask, his mouth opens.

Certainly simple enough.

-

It's not soldiers against citizens. That is enough for Rorschach to roll his mask up and run on the Comedian's heels into the fray.

-

There is his breath and his body turned something new, sharper, and his jaw is clenched but it could be open raw with laughter. He feels as if blinders have been lifted from his eyes, that the whole scope of the world is in front of him.

As he goes, he doesn't hesitate to strike out at whatever's near with fists and feet. He knows that he'll find another gun soon, taken from a corpse's clutch, so spares no bullets.

-

The whites of their eyes tell him everything he needs to know.

For instance: A woman in heavy cloth runs past him, a baby on her back; he catches a glimpse of her expression as she goes - frank, terrified, but determined. Innocent. He lets her pass unharmed, instead levels his pistol at a shadow of a soldier; the man is smiling, the width of the expression causing sweaty creases in his face. Guilty, of what it doesn't matter. Factions are irrelevant, as is the color of his skin, darkened only by smoke. Rorschach takes care of him with a well-placed shot to the back of his neck and relieves him of his M-16.

It's a pity that it is a necessity, but Rorschach is willing to concede to the fact that war necessitates more distant means of disposing of trash. There is so much he needs to do; he refuses to die in Vietnam, not when there's so much left for him back at New York. He remembers still the cases he and Daniel were working on, the names of victims and gang leaders and street signs, and as sweat runs down his face he yearns for the chill of a New York subway tunnel, because finally things are clear to him and he could do so much _good._

For now, he will let Vietnam have him.

He turns towards the sound of gunfire and moves, fearless, free.

-

When there's just silence and the low glow of fire, Rorschach kneels in the cool wetness of a nearby paddy. He's alone, though there are soldiers nearby, soaking up the frank openness of being alive, smoking, laying out their ponchos to settle down for the night. Rorschach can see the shape of the Comedian further out, speaking with the head of the operation.

After Rorschach's at ease enough to let his eyes drift shut and body relax, the Comedian walks back to him and crouches down. There are still tracks of sweat running down his cheeks. "So a chopper's comin' in for the both of us tomorrow morning." The Comedian spits.

"Don't want to talk to them," Rorschach mutters. "I intend to serve my time and return Stateside." 

"Hmm." The Comedian draws from his cigar and lets the smoke out his mouth with lazy exhalations. He doesn't seem bothered by the statement. "They're gonna getcha either way," he says, the words tired. 

Uncomfortable, Rorschach turns his head away. He doubts the Comedian's alluding to anything other than the government, but he's seen the Comedian in the face of death and he also doubts that the Comedian's not resigned himself to death, seeking only to drag as many sorry souls with him as he can. With a jerk of his hand, Rorschach fixes his mask at his neck; he doesn't need to look to know the Comedian's staring him down, sharp gray eyes.

"Well O.K. then," the Comedian mutters. He claps a sweaty palm against the back of Rorschach's neck and shakes him. "Get a few hours' shut-eye."

Before Rorschach can ask him what he means, the Comedian's moved away and sprawled out on the ground, pillowing his head with his hands.

-

Kovacs drifts in and out of sleep for a few hours, his dreams all connecting in vivid, strange ways and flickering away from him every time he tries to remember them. At one point he's certain that he hears mortar shellings nearby, but when he sits upright the night is disturbed by nothing more threatening than a few men sitting and standing rather than crouched or prostrate; the bright pinprick of a cigarette or joint stands out several yards away. The night is a vacuum as Charlie collects himself.

-

The Comedian stirs before dawn, cranky even after he runs through his limited morning routine. Rorschach watches him, half-awake and unconcerned. The commanding officer is a thin silhouette, closer to the village than makes sense to Kovacs. Not many others are awake, spared the Comedian's energetic grousing.

Rorschach's eyes slip shut under the mask.

"Hey," the Comedian says, kicking Rorschach in the ribs. When Rorschach jerks to attention, the skies are the dull washed-out gray of early morning. "Get up." A pause; then, when Rorschach's only rubbed at his side and glared at the Comedian, "I said _up._" With a fist in Rorschach's jacket, the Comedian hoists him to his feet. 

There's no real urgency to the Comedian's command, but Rorschach still tries to focus; he feels sluggish, almost drugged. "Is something the matter?" he asks, knowing there's nothing. It takes an effort to speak, but the Comedian's energy is leeching into him.

The Comedian's reply is to shove Rorschach's rucksack into his arms and stalk towards the north-east, stepping over the few soldiers slumbering in his path. Rorschach's attention swings gradually back into place, and he follows, skirting around the other soldiers. He keeps close enough that he can smell the Comedian's smoke when he lights a cigar. "What," he manages, as the morning compacts into an unpleasant clarity. "Where are we going?" he asks, careful to weed out any feeling on the matter either way.

The Comedian casts back a grin that is more violent than pleased. Rorschach relaxes. "Gonna do some freelance work."

"The helicopters will be expecting us," and what he doesn't half-ask: The government officials are waiting; this is disobedience. The Comedian just snorts and turns his head to the side, looking out across the paddies, away from Rorschach.

They move recklessly. It doesn't take long to reach the edge of the jungle, and it's then that they reorient themselves into a part of Vietnam; they are spectators, silent. They are the trees.

-

The next week is given as much gravity as any of Kovacs's missions, as a soldier or as a mask. Three days pass in absolute silence, treading still waters with as much finesse and care as possible. Rorschach can taste the tension in the air when his mask is rolled over his nose; it ripples through him, becomes a part of him. At night, especially, it's the tension that holds him down and reminds him of his own substance. 

The Comedian thrives in the suspense, the aggressive waiting. Rorschach echoes him flawlessly; a certain savage energy propels him, freed from the constraints of constant order and rigmarole. They hunt out the VC on their own turf - they make random contact in brief spurts. Always they leave behind traces of blood. 

Rorschach has yet to find an innocent face.

- 

They move into dangerous territory, picking their way through trip wires and hunkering down among undergrowth and trees at every sound, taking inventory of their surroundings. Twice they've run into groups of VC too large to tackle; always the men slide away like a stream before they've collected themselves well enough to attack. When there's no activity, the Comedian pressures him into sex, snapping his teeth closed on Kovacs's lips and neck until he breaks. It happens very rarely. The jungle's heavy, here, and they need to keep their awares.

At sunset, the Comedian takes out his radio and fiddles with it. The low thrumming sounds of the jungle cover up the mechanical feedback, but the extra noise makes Rorschach's hackles raise. He knows that the Comedian's only sending the most basic of updates, numbering kills and laying out estimated coordinates. He hasn't yet spoken to anyone from the top.

-

It's a simple attack that sets them into motion.

There's a group of seven Vietnamese soldiers nestled in undergrowth, taking a break to reorganize. A weathered map stretches between two of them; a few of the others are eating rice out of small pouches. Two of the young men hover at the perimeter, blending so well that it's difficult to pick them out. Their dirty faces make Rorschach's fingers tighten on his stolen gun.

The Comedian and Rorschach have been at this long enough to feel out each other's motives before they set out, and with a few gestures from the Comedian they split to flank the group at either side. The first bullet is muted, the sound weirdly distorted by the jungle, but the sound is like flipping a switch. The men scatter, almost gone, but Kovacs has been here long enough to move without hesitation and Rorschach has a magic of his own. He glides across the earth, made weightless by the taste of the fight.

His shots are spare - never wasteful - and bullets bite by his ears. There is a flurry of movements, spattered gunshots, then nothing. Rorschach slinks back against a tree and listens. They won't have left the area any further than absolutely necessary. Maybe the soldiers who escaped are already regrouping - or maybe Rorschach still underestimates the Comedian and his skills. Two bodies lay within sight. It's strange to see.

A few minutes tick by, Rorschach's only sense of time the pulse in his ears, but there's no other signs of life; it must be marginally safe. Rorschach sinks to his knees, mindful of the plants that will give his position away if he were to jostle them. With practiced patience, he crawls belly-down towards the Comedian's last known position, certain that it won't have changed much in the brief firefight and propelled to movement by the knowledge that the Comedian's bulk is a detriment to stealth at such a close range. As he passes one of the dead VC, he pauses to give a cursory search. He pockets a ration of rice and a compass and moves on.

The Comedian, in the end, is easy enough to find. He's wounded.


	5. Chapter 5

The Comedian seems less bothered than Rorschach, which is either a problem or a testament to the kind of soldier he is. Blood's never been an issue for Rorschach, on or off the field, but the Comedian seems to be bleeding more than he should and there's no medic. Rorschach rests his hand over the Comedian's; he's holding a compress to the back of his leg and is still grinning as he does.

"Fuckin' gooks, huh?" the Comedian whispers.

Rorschach nods and slips an arm under the Comedian's back. The weight of his bulk doesn't feel right, insubstantial, almost as if he's already becoming a ghost. Rorschach blinks, scolds himself for the irrational thought, and gives a mental shake before propping the Comedian against a tree, giving pause so he can inspect the damage.

The Comedian swats his hands away before he can touch the spreading stain. "C'mon, let's chogie," he mumbles. Bracing against the tree, he hefts himself up; he doesn't wait for Rorschach to meet him before taking a step forward. Rorschach rises and moves to support him; with the silent threat of the remaining VC at their backs they head for safer ground.

-

A half mile out, they hunker down in the shade of a gnarled monster of a tree. The Comedian's trembling slightly as he feels at the wound, but his expression is calm and expectant. Every few seconds he tilts his head back and surveys the area, a motion that would seem paranoid on anyone else. Given the circumstances, Rorschach considers it prudent. The hair on the back of his neck stands as he prises away the Comedian's hand; he doesn't dare to pull off the compress yet, but he leans in to inspect the full extent of the damage. The bleeding seems to have slowed and the entrance point is covered in its entirety by the gauze. There's not an exit point, which is a small blessing unless they can't make it to a safe landing zone in due time.

"Should keep moving," Rorschach says, resting his palm against the compress. When he looks at the Comedian he's startled to find that he's at ease, head back against the bark. "Can you?"

"Sure I can." The Comedian has enough energy, at least, to sound offended. "Give it a minute." Slowly, he opens his eyes and twists his chest to look back. His languid movements set Rorschach on edge, because he may not have been hit in his femoral artery but he's still lost too much blood and is in too compromised a position for shock to be anything other than lethal. Somehow he thinks the Comedian's _too_ loose-limbed.

"Comedian."

He smiles, sharp and aware. "New plan - you sneak off, scout out the closest LZ, _then_ come back." Rorschach scowls at him under the mask and sits back on his heels; the Comedian claps a hand to his wound again. With his free hand he roots in his costume's pockets, extracts his radio. He holds it out to him, and when Rorschach doesn't move, he shoves it under his nose. "Here. Ya probably won't have to use it, but if you do, just hit this." The Comedian taps a button underneath the speaker; reluctantly, Rorschach accepts the radio and nods. Satisfied, the Comedian leans back again, relaxed.

When it seems the Comedian's not going to elaborate, Rorschach prods, "What information will be sent?"

"Coordinates," the Comedian grunts. "'S an emergency signal. What're you still here for, anyway? Neither of us are gonna get outta here if you don't hurry on out." When he looks at Kovacs again, there's a desperation to his eyes that doesn't fit his voice or the hard scowl that takes over his entire posture. Rorschach doesn't want to leave his partner in such dangerous territory alone, but that look makes a shudder run down him, makes spit collect at the back of his throat. He swallows in quick succession and keeps his hands where they are out of force of will, his grip on the radio tightening, his hand in a fist.

It's when he realizes that he's thought of the Comedian as a partner that he moves without precursor, slinking away from him. He tries to place his nausea, the suddenness and intensity of it, but the thoughts are too distracting. He cuts them off; there are more important things that require his focus.

A few yards away, Rorschach stops and glances back; his view of the Comedian is interrupted by leaves, but he can see enough - the Comedian is leaning forward, chin high. Their distance makes his eyes look like white diamonds. Perhaps seeing Rorschach lingering, he starts to smile, but he doesn't make it that far before he is shot.

-

His right cheek is caved in.

-

Walter can feel his heart beating, every hair on end. He's aware of how wide his eyes are, and that he is wasting time staring like a dumb animal, but he can't make his body work. It's seized with useless energy.

-

Several minutes later, everything catches up to him: The sound of the bullet, the jerk of the Comedian, the - danger, the fact that he is treading on shards of glass and that he must not allow the wounds to cripple him.

Gripping his gun with hands that slip because they are sweating too much, he changes position, sinks onto his stomach, and watches the Com - the area. He hears every natural shift of the jungle and applies to it the impossible gravity of death. For luck, he puts the wire owl in his mouth, bites the yellow stones until it aches.

-

When they come, he is ready.

-

Tasting copper and dirt and years of built up touches, Kovacs unfurls his poncho. Sweat sticks his clothes to his chest and back, and it's uncomfortable enough that he thinks about how good it would feel to take it off and dip into a running river, parasites or not. He thinks of cool water running over him, how it would carry him away in layers of grime, maybe until he was raw, until he was bones, until he was smoothed sand at the bottom, until he was gone.

-

The body is too heavy to carry for long distances. Rorschach takes his time. Absence of fear marks him. He feels clean inside, as if a storm has passed through, leaving fields of green bowing under the weight of it.

-

Before the choppers come, he alleviates the Comedian of his burdens. He takes his guns, his picture of Sally, a second one of Laurie that he's never seen before, one of his dog tags, his ammunition, his knife. He leaves his mask. Rorschach sits with the body and smokes a cigarette, but the effect is dizzying and unpleasant. He finishes it anyway.

-

He waits until the choppers come bearing down, with their blades echoing on and on. Only then does he set the radio over the poncho, rise to his feet, and disappear.

-

Rorschach tilts between days and nights, sleeping in fitful bursts. If he has dreams, he doesn't remember them, and the only traces they leave behind are the wire-tight tension that keeps him. Later, all he'll remember are meaningless details - a flash of bright gold in his periphery; ancient cracks in the bark of a tree at his back; three drops of blood on his wrist (and are they his?); the muscles in a mama-san's neck as she looks up from her cooking. Bug bites on the underside of his jaw. Dead skin that seems to cling forever to his chapped lips. First, sun, and eventually rain that doesn't stop.

-

Kovacs goes long spans without eating even before his rations run out. He keeps his rucksack, though several times he almost abandons it, the weight of it close to unbearable in addition to the rain. When he is lucky, and he's very rarely lucky, he finds a village with someone willing to offer him a meal. 

He spends two fever-soaked nights curled in an old Vietnamese man's hooch, certain that he will die.

Here is what he dreams:

Nite Owl sitting in the cramped, thatched home as the old man sleeps. Slowly, he peels off his gloves. 

"Daniel," Rorschach grits through his teeth. "You shouldn't be here. Dangerous. Very dangerous. You'll die." (His voice cracks.)

Daniel's hands are pale, clean. It's Nite Owl who folds the gloves and sets them to the side. "You're sick." Rorschach can't summon the energy to care, so perhaps Nite Owl is correct. "This isn't like you."

Rorschach turns away, stares at the wall. Nite Owl's shadow is a vacuum of light over Rorschach's faded silhouette.

"I'm worried," he adds, and it's Daniel who says it, Daniel's hand that rests over Rorschach's cheek. Rorschach doesn't look back at him. It would hurt too much.

When he wakes, the fever's waned.

-

Kovacs marches with the owl in between his teeth. Some things are beyond skepticism. Daniel has carried him this far.

-

The rain is a problem, but Walter has weathered worse, so he keeps moving, his body and his identity synching into a tireless machine.

Sometimes he imagines he's walking behind his father, with only the rain between them, so that if he would just move a little faster, they could go together.

-

At night, he begins to have waking-nightmares of being eaten alive, but at day he cuts a path through Vietnam with something similar to confidence, the ground behind marked by blood and the faintest traces of a man passing through. There's many times he forgets that he's alone and turns, expecting the Comedian, or Ryan, or any of the men he's fought with to be at his flank. They never are - and he frowns, and he moves on.

-

Rorschach rolls his mask up over his forehead and sighs out his relief. Even the humid air accompanying the current downpour seems cool and fresh without the latex trapping it. He doesn't waste more than a few seconds before his attention turns back to the corpse in front of him. 

It's still bleeding, the rain diluting the color, but Rorschach knows better than to think it looks unreal. This is more real than the rest of his life, all of the pale nightmares coalescing into this: A Vietnamese soldier with rations in his pack, with ammunition and weapons. With blood sluicing off his back from two puncture wounds.

Rorschach hefts the corpse's gun in his hands, judging it for its worth to him - and as he levels it out, aiming at nothing, he sees Nite Owl.

He's far enough away to look unreal. Rorschach knows he's not.

Slowly, Nite Owl lifts a branch, ducks under it. He's watching Rorschach. His ankles are very near a tripwire, and Rorschach is quite certain he can't see it.

"Hello, Daniel," he says.

Nite Owl lowers the branch again and straightens. He's unafraid, and he minds the tripwire as he steps closer, each movement ginger, tentative. He holds his hand out, but he's not near enough to take Rorschach's hand, even if he wanted to reach back.

Rorschach realizes he pities Daniel. "Don't understand," he explains, gently, for Daniel's sake. "There's no going back. Not from here." As he says it, he finds he doesn't believe it, the strength of the thought burning through his chest. 

A gust of wind bends through the jungle, and it's then that he sees Nite Owl is not Nite Owl, but a young Vietnamese soldier, dressed in black. The outstretched hand is a gun.

Rorschach can see the whites of his eyes.


End file.
